XAJI-  rt < c/F~t 


INDECISION 


OTHER      POEMS 


INDECISION, 


AND 


TALE    OF  THE   FAR  WEST; 

/ 

OTHER    POEMS. 

BY  J.  K.  MITCHELL,  M.D. 


"  Hurrah,  for  the  Prairie  !  no  blight  on  its  breeze, 
No  mist  from  the  mountain,  no  shadow  from  trees  ; 
It  steals,  incense-loaded,  that  gale,  from  the- west, 
As  bees  from  the  prairie-rose  fly  to  the  nest." 


PHILADELPHIA : 
E.    L.    CAREY    &    A.    HART. 

MDCCCXXXIX. 


ENTERED  according  to  act  of  congress,  in  the  year  1838,  by  E.  L. 
CAREY  &  A.  HART,  in  the  clerk's  office  of  the  district  court  of  the 
eastern  district  of  Pennsylvania. 


Philadelphia: 

T     K.   *    P.    G.   COLLINS,  Printers, 
No.  i  Lodge  Alley. 


DEDICATED 
TO  N.  CHAPMAN,  M.D. 

DEAR  Doctor,  though  I  hae  the  will, 
I  fear  I  want  poetic  skill 

To  do  ye  muckle  credit; 
But  yet  I'll  imp  my  youthfu'  wing, 
And  o'  my  guid  preceptor  sing, 

Though  ye  y'ersel  may  dread  it. 

I've  aften  wished  for  Burns's  pen, 
And  thochts  frae  Ramsay's  fairy  glen, 

To  do  ye  fitting  honour, 
But  tak  the  will  and  no  the  deed, 
My  muse,  the  jade,  awa  will  speed, 

Sae  I  maun  e'en  get  on  her. 
1* 


vi  DEDICATION. 

Ah  !  weel  I  mind  when  first  I  saw 
Ye  laying  down  the  morbid  law 

O'  nature  to  the  student; 
To  dry  detail  and  dusty  lore, 
Brocht  frae  y'er  inexhausted  store, 

A  new  enchantment  you  lent. 

Frae  worthies  o'  the  aulden  time, 
To  those  wha  yet  were  i'  their  prime, 

Ye  drew  y'er  rich  resources; 
And  last,  not  least,  frae  y'er  ain  sel, 
Baith  thochts  and  words  o'  magic  spell 

Adorn'd  y'er  ripe  discourses. 

Wi'  easy  grace  and  potent  sense, 
Clear  order,  a'  without  pretence, 

And  learning  without  show,  sir, 
Ye  charm'd  the  eye,  and  pleas'd  the  ear, 
And  made  y'er  thochts  sae  richly  clear, 

The  darkest  truth  did  glow,  sir. 


DEDICATION. 

But  faith,  I  scarce  believ'd  my  eyes; 
Ye  took  me,  sir,  wi'  sair  surprise, 

When  mang  y'er  friends  I  saw  ye 
Let  loose  the  wit  by  science  chaih'd — 
Humour  that  nae  ane  ever  pain'd — 

Oh  !  thus  I'd  like  to  draw  ye  ! 

They  little  ken  ye  wha  hae  known 
Y'er  science  and  y'er  skill  alone, 

Though  they  are  mair  than  ample; 
The  racy  pun,  rich  repartee, 
The  gushing  joke  frae  malice  free, 

Wad  na  complete  the  sample. — 

But  better  far,  a  heart  that  ne'er 
Did  o'er  a  human  ill  forbear 

To  heave  a  feeling  sigh, 
That  readily  forgave  a  foe, 
And  never  dealt  a  jealous  blow, 

In  keenest  rivalry. 


DEDCIATION. 

Mair  I  might  say,  but  this  I  fear 
E'en  frae  a  friend  ye'll  hardly  bear, 

Sae  I'll  nae  mair  offend  ye; 
Though  if  ae  man  beside  y'ersel 
Says  that  the  truth  I  dinna  tell, 

That  man  has  never  kenn'd  ye. 


J.  K.  MITCHELL. 


INTRODUCTION. 


IN  the  midst  of  arduous  professional  duties, 
imaginative  composition,  like  music  or  painting, 
primes  the  wing  of  overloaded  reason  for  a 
more  vigorous  flight.  Written  for  such  a  pur 
pose,  and,  consequently,  at  short,  infrequent,  and 
irregular  periods  of  time,  the  following  poem 
must  necessarily  bear  the  marks  of  haste  and 
interrupted  labour. 

While  he  may  be  permitted  thus  to  account 
for  some  of  the  defects  of  his  work,  the  author 
does  not  expect  to  be  shielded  from  the  criticism 
to  which  every  public  production  is  necessarily 
liable;  but  he  thinks  that  the  unusual  circum 
stances  under  which  the  task  has  been  completed, 


x  INTRODUCTION. 

should  be  made  known,  as  evidence  of  the  exist 
ence  of  literary  opportunity  amidst  the  most 
urgent  and  perplexing  professional  pursuits,  and 
of  the  refreshment  derived  from  even  consider 
able  mental  exertion,  directed  towards  subjects 
remotely  related  to  the  common  course  of  a  busi 
ness  life. 

With  this  brief  prefatory  notice,  the  verses  are 
left  to  their  fate;  not  without  solicitude  for  their 
favourable  reception,  but  with  less  anxiety  than 
authors  usually  feel,  who  make  letters  a  profes 
sion,  and  depend  on  public  taste  for  both  subsist 
ence  and  fame. 


INDECISION 


INDECISION; 


TALE     OF     THE     FAR    WEST. 


PART  FIRST. 

THE  sail  is  loos'd,  the  swinging  anchor  free, 
The  boat  is  hoisted,  and  the  ship  for  sea: 
The  hills  of  Scotland  swell  on  either  side 
And,  'neath  the  vessel,  heave  the  waves  of  Clyde. 

Ah,  who  can  leave  that  soul-ennobled  spot, 
Nor  think  of  Bruce  and  Wallace,  Campbell,  Scott, 
Burns,  Thomson,  Ramsay,  Wilson,  and  Macneill, 
And  many  a  son  of  song,  and  many  a  hand  of  steel  1 
Each  mountain  sends  its  lesson  thro'  the  air, 
Castles  are  tomb-stones  to  dead  honor  there. 
2 


14  INDECISION. 

Each  sheltered  vale  embosom'd  deeds  of  eld, 
For  many  a  scholar's  fate  its  monasteries  knell'd. 
There  spreads  the  matchless  waste  of  Bannockburn, 
For  Roderic's  deeds,  still  sig-hs  the  mountain  fern, 
There  blaz'd  the  barns  of  Ayr,  whose  holy  light, 
Flash'd  Etna-like  upon  the  darkest  night 
Of  Scottish  bondage.     There  the  modest  rill, 
The  loch  remote,  the  wild  sequester'd  hill, 
In  name  and  circumstance  unknown  before, 
Glow  in  the  song,  and  sound  from  shore  to  shore, 
Where  frown  Columbian  woods,  or  India's  billows  roar. 

The  deck  is  throng'd,  the  multitude  survey, 
Each,  with  peculiar  eye,  the  watery  way. 
The  young,  exultant,  cast  a  glance  of  glee 
Across  the  surging  surface  of  the  sea. 
Hope  bounds  at  tales  of  wealth,  and  power,  and  fame, 
And  fancy  paints,  with  pencil  dipt  in  flame, 
The  glowing  landscape  of  the  teeming  West, 
"  Where  every  bosom  loves,  and  every  love  is  blest." 

The  old,  with  thoughtful  brow  and  sadden'd  eye, 
Still  watch  the  land-hues  fading  into  sky, 


INDECISION.  15 

As  if  reluctant  to  avert  the  view 

A  moment  from  the  shore's  receding  blue, 

As,  trembling  on  the  ring'd  horizon,  peep 

The  topmast  peaks  above  the  rising  deep. 

The  tender  sapling,  torn  from  natal  sod, 

Transplanted  blooms,  and  spreads  its  arms  abroad, 

But  aged  trees,  when  sever'd  from  the  earth 

They  once  have  shaded,  know  no  second  birth. 

The  middle  aged  a  mingled  feeling  find, 
Hope  forward  points,  affection  lags  behind; 
At  times  they  smile  along  the  coming  main, 
At  times  the  homeward  glance  expresses  pain. 
One  seeks  the  bow,  to  watch  the  foaming  spray, 
As  'neath  the  fleeting  prow  the  billows  play; 
Another,  leaning  on  the  taffrail,  sighs, 
As  landward  waves  begin  to  fringe  the  skies. 

Apart  from  all,  upon  the  airy  shroud, 
Sat  one,  whom  sadness  taught  to  shun  the  crowd. 
Aloft,  he  sought  a  more  extended  view, 
For  well  the  wild  and  varied  land  he  knew, 
From  high  Benlomond,  to  the  castled  pride 
Of  steep  Dumbarton,  frowning  o'er  the  Clyde: 


3G  INDECISION. 

From  princely  Inverary's  halls  of  state, 
To  wild  Cullean,  at  whose  embattled  gate 
The  Gipsey-lover  sang  his  serenade, 
And  lured  the  lady  to  his  sylvan  shade. 
Each  hallow'd  spot,  each  consecrated  scene, 
To  him  a  pilgrim's  sacred  shrine  had  been. 
He  honour'd  art  in  Portland's  noble  Troon, 
And  wept  with  nature,  o'er  her  child,  at  Doon. 
The  Mavis  sang  for  him  in  C  alder  wood, 
The  Afton  roll'd  for  him  its  sweetest  flood, 
With  fated  love  he  sigh'd  in  graceful  Stair, 
And  mark'd  the  windings  of  romantic  Ayr. 
He  strove,  as  onward  flew  the  ship,  to  trace 
The  fading  signals  of  each  well  known  place: 
And  only  mingled  with  the  crowd,  when  light, 
Drown'd  in  the  tide  of  darkness,  sank  to  night, 
The  first  drear  night  upon  the  restless  main, 
That  hides  the  home  he  ne'er  may  see  again. 
In  Scotia's  lofty  mould  his  soul  was  cast, 
But  care's  dark  cloud  had  o'er  his  spirit  pass'd, 
And  mark'd  with  pensive  air  his  azure  eye, 
Compress'd  his  mellow  lip,  and  seam'd  his  forehead  high. 


INDECISION.  17 

Of  lofty  intellect,  and  feeling-  heart, 
Enriched  by  fortune  and  adorn'd  by  art, 
'Twas  Norman's  fate,  one  single  fault  to  know, 
The  fruitful  cause  of  many  a  future  woe. 
That  noblest  virtue,  MORAL  COURAGE,  knew 
No  place  within  his  bosom,  where  there  grew 
All  else  to  dignify,  adorn,  and  bless; 
But,  wanting  that,  he  wanted  happiness. 

'Twere  vain  to  tell  how  like  a  blight  it  fell 
On  life's  young  spring,  how  potently  the  spell 
Despoiled  his  summer  time  of  hope,  and  burst 
The  ties  that  bound  him  to  the  land,  where  first 
He  drew  his  infant-breath;  where  nature  smil'd 
Propitiously  on  fancy's  favour'd  child; 
Where  honours  throng'd,  fastidious  choice  to  win, 
And  Love  illum'd  the  home,  where  Hymen  long  had  been. 

The  scanty  pittance  frowning  fortune  spar'd, 
He  nobly  with  his  aged  mother  shar'd; 
And,  with  his  wife,  and  child,  and  hope,  and  health, 
Embark'd  to  seek  in  western  wilds  that  wealth, 
To  which  the  blinded  world  around  him  bent: 
And  he,  tho'  wiser,  dared  not  to  dissent. 
2* 


18  INDECISION. 

He  could  not  bear  the  coldness  of  the  proud, 
The  lessen'd  homage  of  the  venal  crowd, 
The  flight  of  summer-friends,  the  common-places 
Of  sympathy  from  those  who  lent  their  faces, 
In  ostentation  still.     He  might  have  wrought, 
At  home,  his  way  again,  to  what  he  sought, 
And  sever' d  not  his  wife,  from  what  the  heart 
Of  home-bound  woman  cannot,  all,  depart. 
Decision  faiPd  him  for  the  trying  task; 
And  she  forbore  a  sacrifice  to  ask. 

She  did  not  murmur,  but  her  tearful  eye, 
Unquiet  air,  and  oft  repeated  sigh, 
Betray 'd  the  anguish  of  her  soul,  as  fell, 
Upon  her  ear,  the  pregnant  word  "  farewell." 

Alone  upon  the  infant  on  her  knee 
Her  eyes  were  fix'd;  the  new,  the  graceful  sea 
Bounded  in  vain,  the  fast  receding  shore, 
Belov'd  beyond  expression,  drew  no  more 
One  look  of  recognition.     She  might  hear, 
From  curious  gazers,  names  of  places  dear 
To  childhood's  memory;  scenes  where  love's  young  dream 
In  freshness  bloom'd,  beyond  the  poet's  theme; 


INDECISION.  19 

They  fell  unheeded  on  th.e  mothers  ear, 
Whose  dark  blue  eye  was  sadden'd  by  a  tear; 
But  not  for  home  or  country.     That  weak  child, 
The  pledge  of  tried  affection,  tho'  it  smil'd 
Most  sweetly  on  her,  fill'd  her  heart  alone, 
With  pangs  but  to  a  mother's  bosom  known. 
She  thought,  perforce  her  gentle  child  must  rove, 
With  painted  Indians  thro'  the  frowning  grove, 
His  food,  the  hunted  deer,  his  hairy  dress, 
The  skins  of  monsters  of  the  wilderness, 
And  fall  ingloriously  before  his  prime, 
His  life  a  labour,  and  his  death  a  crime. 

The  night  was  dark,  the  gentle  breezes  kept 
A  careless  vigil,  and  they  sometimes  slept, 
And,  gliding  softly  o'er  the  placid  Clyde, 
The  ship  scarce  felt  the  heaving  of  the  tide. 
The  stars  were  dancing  o'er  the  foamless  brine, 
Now  flashing  broadly,  now,  in  arrowy  line, 
Darting  along,  while,  watchful  of  the  play, 
The  gazers  turned  admiring  eyes  away 
From  fixed  lights  amidst  the  cloudless  sky; 
As  men  love  more  the  earth's  uncertainty, 
Than  Heaven's  unchanging  joys,  altho'  they  never  die. 


20  INDECISION. 

As  chance  or  taste  decide,  the  groups  on  deck, 
Of  home  or  wilderness,  of  port  or  wreck, 
Converse;  or  cheat  the  time  with  joke  and  song1; 
Or  round  the  wearied  captain  rudely  throng, 
To  ask  a  thousand  foolish  questions,  while 
The  seamen  slyly  pinch  their  mates  and  smile. 

But  hark !  how  loudly  comes  the  voice  of  one, 
From  Scotchmen,  by  his  English  accent,  known. 
His  theme  arrests  attention,  for  he  tells 
Of  transatlantic  wonders;  proudly  dwells 
On  mighty  things,  exhaustless  Nature's  store, 
"The  prairie's  wild,  and  Niagara's  roar, 
The  wide  unbroken  forest's  shrubless  gloom, 
The  Indian's  home  of  yore,  but  now  his  tomb; 
The  clouds  of  buffalo,  the  herds  of  deer, 
The  beaver's  citadel,  the  panther's  lair, 
The  mighty  lake,  the  river,  and  the  hill, 
Compar'd  with  which  a  Scottish  stream's  a  rill, 
A  mount's  a  mole-hill,  and  a  loch,  a  basin 
Scarce  large  enough  to  wash  a  mammoth's  face  in." 
As  grew  his  theme,  his  voice  grew  louder  too, 
Till  round  him  gather'd  passengers  and  crew. 


INDECISION.  21 

A  larger  audience  more  excitement  brought, 
And  home,  sweet  home,  alone  usurp'd  his  thought; 
'Till,  heedless  of  the  time  and  place,  he  broke 
Into  a  song,  and  thus  the  air  he  woke. 

THE  SONG  OF  THE  PRAIRIE. 

Oh  fly  to  the  Prairie,  sweet  maiden,  with  me, 
'Tis  as  green  and  as  wild  and  as  wide  as  the  sea, 
O'er  its  soft  silken  bosom  the  summer  winds  glide, 
And  wrave  the  wild  grass  in  its  billowy  pride. 

The  fawns  in  the  meadow  fields  fearlessly  play; 
Away  to  the  chase,  lovely  maiden,  away; 
Bound,  bound  to  thy  courser,  the  bison  is  near, 
And  list  to  the  tramp  of  the  lightfooted  deer. 

Let  Mexicans  boast  of  their  herds  and  their  steeds, 
A  bold  Prairie-hunter  no  shepherd-boy  needs, 
For  bisons  like  clouds  overshadow  the  place, 
And  wild  spotted  coursers  invite  to  the  chase. 


22  INDECISION. 

Oh  softly  as  thine,  on  thy  carpeted  hall, 

Is  heard  the  light  foot  of  the  courser  to  fall, 

Where  the  flower  studded  grass  no  impression  receives 

From  ironless  hoofs  as  they  bound  from  the  leaves. 

Let  England  exult  in  her  dogs  and  her  chase, 
Oh  what's  a  king's  park  to  this  limitless  space, 
Where  the  green  of  the  fields  and  the  blue  of  the  skies, 
In  the  far  distance  meeting,  commingle  their  dies. 

The  farmer  looks  proudly  on  grasses  and  grain, 

Yet  he  sows  them  with  labour  and  reaps  them  with  pain, 

But  here  the  deep  soil  no  exertion  requires 

Enrich'd  by  the  ashes  and  clear'd  by  the  fires. 

The  woodsman  delights  in  his  trees  and  his  shade, 
But  see,  there's  no  sun  on  the  cheek  of  his  maid; 
His  flowers  are  blighted  his  blossoms  look  pale 
And  mildew  is  riding  his  vaporous  gale. 

Hurrah  for  the  Prairie !  no  blight  on  its  breeze, 
No  mist  from  the  mountains,  no  shadow  from  trees, 


INDECISION.  23 

It  steals,  incense-loaded,  that  gale,  from  the  west, 
As  bees  from  the  Prairie-rose  fly  to  the  nest. 

Then  fly  to  the  Prairie,  sweet  maiden,  with  me, 
The  vine  and  the  Prairie-rose  cluster  for  thee, 
And,  hailing  the  moon  in  the  prairie-propt  sky, 
The  mocking-bird  echoes  the  katy-did's  cry. 

There  is  nothing  to  cloy  in  the  wilds  of  the  West, 
Each  day  has  its  pleasure,  each  evening  its  zest. 
Our  toil  is  a  pastime,  our  rifles  afford 
The  joy  of  the  chase  and  the  food  for  the  board,. 

Ho  !  ho  !  for  the  Prairie  !  oh  follow  me  thither, 
Love's  flowers  await  thee,  but  never  to  wither, 
No  wretches  to  envy,  no  lords  to  deny, 
No  gossips  to  slander,  no  neighbours  to  pry. 

We  struggle  not  there  the  heart's  impulse  to  hide, 
Love  leaps  like  the  fount  from  the  crystal  rock's  side; 
And  strong  as  its  adamant,  pure  as  its  spring, 
Waves  wildly  in  sunbeams  his  rose-colour'd  wing. 


24  INDECISION. 

A  thoughtful  silence  follow'd,  till  a  strain 
Of  softer  music  breath'd  along  the  main. 
At  first  its  low  Eolian  notes  were  heard, 
Like  timid  warblings  of  the  early  bird 
On  spring's  precocious  spray:  then  came  the  swell 
Of  kindling  tones,  as,  yielding  to  the  spell, 
The  mellow  voice,  in  Scottish  accents  clear, 
Aroused  the  murmurs  of  the  ocean  air. 


ADIEU,  ADIEU,  MY  AIN  SWEET  LAND. 

Adieu,  adieu,  my  ain  sweet  land, 

I  hail  thee  frae  the  sea 

That  bears  me,  Scotia,  frae  thy  strand, 

And,  Mary,  far  frae  thee. 

The  hills  may  pierce  serener  skies 

Ahint  the  western  main, 

And  fairer  flowers  and  forests  rise 

To  shade  a  richer  plain; 

But  oh,  I'll  vainly  search  below 

For  sic  a  gracefu'  guise, 

As  wisdom,  valour,  beauty,  throw 

Across  my  cloudy  skies. 


INDECISION.  25 

The  soul  of  genius  lifts  her  hills 

That  a'  the  earth  may  see, 

And  wakes  the  meanest  of  her  rills 

To  immortality. 

Where'er,  whilst  living,  I  may  be, 

Dear  land,  when  death  is  nigh, 

I  can't,  the  hope  to  gaze  on  thee, 

To  my  lone  heart  deny. 

Then  fare-thee-well,  but  not  for  aye, 

Thou  land  of  soul  and  glee, 

Romantic  land,  where'er  I  stray, 

My  heart  will  turn  to  thee; 

Cheer'd  by  the  hope  to  lay  my  head 

Again  on  Mary's  breast, 

On  Allan's  welcome  daisies  tread 

And  sink  at  hame  to  rest. 

The  plaintive  minstrel  ceas'd,  and  plaudits  loud 
Rang  through  the  circle  of  the  Scottish  crowd; 
But  scarcely  ceased  their  fervid  approbation, 
When  suddenly  the  cry, 

"  Hands !  to  your  station !" 
3 


26  INDECISION. 

Startled  the  landsmen.     "  Call  all  hands  on  deck ! 
The  cap  on  Gaetfield  tells  of  storm  and  wreck ! 
Send  passengers  below !  up  watch  to  reef, 
The  squalls  from  Arran  give  but  notice  brief." 

The  deck  was  clear'd,  the  passengers,  below, 
In  silence  listen'd  to  the  coming  "  blow,-" 
And  as  the  "squall,  came  booming  thro'  the  shrouds," 
And  mix'd  the  luggage  with  the  reeling  crowds, 
The  women  scream'd,  the  frighten'd  children  cried, 
While  all  with  grasping  effort  vainly  tried 
To  cling  to  something  fix'd,  or  watched  the  play 
Of  threat'ning  boxes  as  they  broke  away 
From  careless  moorings.     Some,  too  sick  to  care 
For  storm  or  bruises,  cried  aloud  for  air, 
While  some,  more  cautious,  at  the  cabin  door 
Inquir'd  what  chance  to  clear  the  leeward  shore. 
The  storm  grew  fiercer,  dashing  o'er  the  rail, 
The  driving  spray  pitch'd  high  upon  the  sail, 
And  drove  the  few  unwillingly  from  deck, 
Who  linger'd  there  to  swim,  in  case  of  wreck. 

The  captain  calmer  grew,  as  grew  the  gale, 
And,  tho'  the  gunwale  dipp'd,  he  added  sail, 


INDECISION.  27 

And  yet  more  sail.     "  If,  long  before  the  day, 
We  weather  not  projecting-  Galloway, 
We  must  be  dash'd  upon  its  iron  coast, 
And  ship  and  crew  inevitably  lost. 
Larboard  your  helm." 

"  'Tis  larboard,  sir,"  replied 
The  helmsman,  as  the  fluttering1  sails  he  ey'd. 

"  Keep  her  away  a  little  !     That  will  do, 
In  such  a  storm  'twere  folly  to  broach  to  ! 
How  heads  she  now1?" 

"  South  west  by  south !" 

"That's  right, 
Despite  lee-way  and  set,  we'll  clear  the  land  to-night." 

The  mate,  tho'  close  beside  him,  drew  more  near, 
And  said, 

"  The  masts  won't  bear  the  strain,  I  fear; 
They  crack  already,  the  fore-topmast's  old, 
The  plank-share's  torn,  there's  water  in  the  hold; 
I  mean  no  disrespect,  sir,  but  in  trying 
To  clear  Corsill,  we'll  swamp. — There's  safe  Loch  Ryan, 
Upon  our  leeward  bow." — The  captain  ey'd 
The  hatless  mate  a  moment,  then  replied, 


28  INDECISION. 

In  that  indifferent  tone,  which  still  in  danger, 
Conceal'd  his  fear,  if  any,  from  a  stranger, 

"  If  you  can  see  the  shore,  '  or  light'  or  guide, 
Amidst  this  fog,  and  darkness,  I'll  abide 
By  your  advice— methinks  'twere  better  far, 
To  eat  Loch  Ryan  oysters  at  Stranraer, 
Than  run  the  risk  of  making  up  a  dish, 
Of  bipeds  here  to  gratify  the  fish. 
As  'tis,  I'll  carry  on  !     First  thoughts  are  best. 
But  sound  the  pump,  sir !     Put  our  doubts  at  rest !" 

"  Aye,  aye,  sir,"  answer'd  he,  and  off  he  flew; 
"  Come  sound  the  pump  boys  !" 

"Two  feet  water!" 

"Two!" 

"  Ho,  man  the  pumps,  all  hands  there  !     '  Give  away !' 
Another  hour  will  clear  old  Galloway." 

There's  sadness  in  a  widow'd  mother's  tale, 
There's  sadness  in  a  wintry  forest's  wail, 
There's  melancholy  in  a  curfew's  knell, 
And  terror  in  the  ambush'd  Indian's  yell: 
But  never  came  there  to  a  human  ear, 
A  sound  more  full  of  sorrow  and  of  fear, 


INDECISION.  29 

Than,  midst  the  howling-  storm,  the  doleful  pump, 
That  speaks  of  wreck  in  every  "useless  thump. 

The  labour'd  breath,  the  more  than  languid  stroke, 
Evinc'd  the  spirit  of  the  seamen  broke, 
And  each  successive  sounding  shew'd  the  sea 
Was  struggling,  not  in  vain,  for  mastery; 
Till  jaded,  cold,  and  wet,  the  sailors  swore, 
The  toil  was  useless,  and  they'd  work  no  more. 

"The  men  won't  work,  sir,"  said  the  thoughtful  mate, 
And  growing  waters  warn  of  coming  fate; 
If  I  might  still  advise,  'twould  be  to  run 
The  sinking  ship  to  leeward — ten  to  one, 
We'll  make  Loch  Ryan  safely,  but  if  not 
We  shall  not  harm  our  desperate  case  a  jot. 
We  can  but  drown,  as  we  shall  do,  perforce, 
If  rashly  we  maintain  our  present  course." 

"  My  resolution's  taken,  sir,"  replied 
The  captain  coolly.     "  Weal  or  woe  betide, 
I'll  keep  the  bolder  course. — By  standing  on, 
The  danger's  somewhat  nearer,  but  'tis  known, 
And  much  less  certain. — Shipmates  for  your  lives  ! 
The  pump,  again  !     Your  sweethearts  and  your  wives, 
3* 


30  INDECISION. 

Won't  thank  you  for  the  little  care  you  take 

Of  all  they  love  ! — Another  effort  make, 

And  soon  we'll  ease  her !     Once,  Corsill  behind, 

We'll  stretch  our  canvas  to  a  freer  wind." 

So  saying,  he  himself  the  pump  essay'd. 

The  crew,  arous'd,  another  effort  made; 

But  suddenly  the  valves  were  choak'd,  and  then 

The  pump  stood  still  and  would  not  work  again. 

The  men  wrere  brave,  but  'twas  a  fearful  sight, 
To  see  their  faces,  by  the  cold  pale  light 
Of  flashing  waves,  as  each  in  silence  tried 
To  scan  the  countenances  at  his  side  : 
But  not  one  word  for  hope  or  fear  was  said; 
But  there  they  stood,  as  if  already  dead, 
Pale,  silent,  motionless,  as  if  to  stone, 
Each  living  statue  suddenly  had  grown. 

Not  long  endur'd  the  fearful  revery — 
For,  from  below,  the  cry  "  the  sea,  the  sea !" 
Rose  o'er  the  blustering  storm,  and  told  how  near, 
Appear'd  that  cold  dark  death,  the  bravest  fear; 
For,  surging  upward  thro'  the  cabin  floor, 
The  bubbling  waters  told  them  all  was  o'er; 


INDECISION.  31 

And  drove  them  up  for  respite,  tho'  the  sea, 
Across  the  slippery  deck  dash'd  furiously, 
And  shelterless,  the  child  and  maiden  stood 
The  fierce  encounter  of  the  restless  flood. 

The  first  wild  scream  of  sudden  terror  o'er, 
No  human  sound  was  mingled  with  the  roar 
Of  winds  and  waves.— A  silence,  as  of  death, 
Fell  on  the  crowd — the  boldest  held  his  breath. 
The  nestling  infant,  turning  from  the  breast, 
Its  wonted  refuge,  silently  express'd 
In  that  unusual  gesture,  fear  above 
The  hope  of  human  aid,  the  balm  of  human  love. 

"  My  mate  !  my  mate  !"  the  captain,  whispering,  said, 
"If  I  mistake  not  there's  Corsill  ahead — 
That  foam  is  far  too  broad  and  high  to  be 
The  madness  of  an  unresisted  sea. 
Ah !   breakers  !     Cling  for  life !     Luff,  helmsman,  luff! 
So  !    steady  ! — God  be  prais'd — weVe  room  enough  ! 
But  not  an  inch  to  spare.     Luff,  luff,  I  say ! 
'Tis  past !  'tis  past ! — Up  helm  there  ! — Keep  away ! 
We  soon  shall  see  Portpatrick,  and  the  day." 


32  INDECISION. 

Oh  reader,  if  you've  seen  the  felon's  look, 
When  from  respited  neck,  the  rope  he  shook; 
If  you  have  seen  the  doating  mother's  eyes, 
When  to  her  long-  lost,  rescued  child  she  flies, 
If  you  have  seen  the  joy-enkindled  flush, 
Of  doubting  lover,  answer'd  by  a  blush, 
You  may  conceive,  what  language  can't  express, 
The  fierce  delirium  of  the  happiness, 
When,  roused  by  hope,  there  came  the  cheering  cry, 
"  Come,  clear  the  pumps,  my  boys,  we'll  drain  her  dry- 
Out  reefs— make  sail— Portpatrick's  full  in  view- 
Steer    small  — the    channel's    narrow  —  there !— we're 

through ! 

Let  go  the  anchor — man  the  boat — who  choose, 
May  go  ashore,  to  learn,  or  tell  the  news." 

The  sun  emerg'd  from  storm-clouds,  pure  and  bright, 
To  put  the  mists,  and  mental  gloom,  to  flight, 
And  none  who  saw  the  gay  and  curious  crowds, 
On  bustling  deck,  and  overloaded  shrouds, 
Would  dream,  that,  just  escap'd  the  angry  sea, 
Each  joyous  thing  had  graz'd  eternity, 


INDECISION.  33 

And  that,  with  such  dread  evidence  of  danger, 
Each  hop'd  again  to  be  an  ocean  ranger; 
As  soon  oblivious  of  the  bygone  threat, 
As  if,  exempted  from  the  doom  of  fate, 
Each  held  a  charmed  life. — 'Tis  ever  so, 
With  human  weakness;  eloquent  in  woe, 
Of  virtuous  promise;  but  the  danger  o'er, 
The  sorrow  gone,  the  lesson's  read  no  more — 
The  heart  is  like  the  hard  sepulchral  stone, 
On  which  repeated  blows  inscribe  alone, 
Its  truth  or  falsehood;  trials,  to  be  blest, 
Must  be  by  sorrow's  frequent  hand  imprest. 

The  noble  face  of  Norman,  ever  grave, 
Seem'd  solemn  now  beyond  his  wonted  air, 
And  wounded  spots  upon  his  forehead  gave 
A  wild  relief  to  deadly  paleness  there — 
His  restless  eye,  and  constant  change  of  place, 
Contrasted  strangely  with  his  stilly  face, 
And  those  who  once  had  felt  his  piercing  look, 
And  scarcely  could  his  searching  aspect  brook, 
In  turn  observ'd  his  now  revolving  eye, 
Averted  timidly  from  scrutiny. 


34  INDECISION. 

His  wife  alone,  of  those  who  knew  him  well, 
Appear'd  unconscious  of  the  fearful  spell. 
Enshrouded  in  affection's  blinding  haze, 
She  mark'd  not  what  would  draw  a  stranger's  gaze; 
Or,  if  she  saw  an  alter'd  look,  her  heart 
Indulged  itself  in  that  love-nurtur'd  art, 
Which  kindly  teaches  sorrow  to  conceal 
The  utter  woe  it  cannot  live  and  feel. 

With  gentle  care,  she  loos'd  the  lengthen'd  plaid, 
That  bound  her  baby  firmly  to  her  side, 
And  casting  off  a  'kerchief  from  her  wrist, 
She  smil'd,  tho'  sadly,  as  his  brow  she  kiss'd. 

"  You  cannot  guess,  my  husband,  why  I  drew 
This  knot  so  tightly !     Oh,  it  was  that  you 
Might  fix  the  noose  upon  your  arm,  and  so, 
With  me  and  my  sweet  babe,  united  go 
To  weal  or  woe;  a  common  fate  to  share, 
With  thee  and  it,  was  ever  Emma's  prayer. 
I  hop'd,  too,  that  the  surge  might  kindly  sweep 
Our  corses  upward  from  the  cold,  dark  deep, 
And  gentle  hands  afford  a  grassy  grave 
To  those  who  were  not  seyer'd  by  the  wave. 


INDECISION.  35 

In  Scottish  earth,  with  all  I  lov'd,  to  lie, 

Seem'd  not  to  me  a  gloomy  destiny; 

Since  oft  I  fear'd  for  my  dear  babe  and  thee, 

A  darker  doom  beyond  the  western  sea. 

But  God,  whose  goodness  curb'd  the  raging  main, 

May,  will,  protect  confiding  hearts  again." 

Vain  hope,  at  least  in  love's  earth-bounded  sense; 
For  man,  in  wishes,  shews  his  impotence 
And  blindness  most. — When  passion  stirr'd,  the  heart, 
To  present  good,  a  tenure  would  impart, 
Immortal,  changeless — dreaming  not,  in  bliss, 
That  in  mutation  dwells  the  happiness 
Of  things  of  time — that  fixed  and  changeless  joy 
Belongs  alone  to  Heaven.     Earth's  pleasures  cloy, 
By  law  Divine;  lest  man  should  find  a  goal 
In  human  haunts,  and  sacrifice  his  soul 
To  mortal  toys,  and  childlike  ever  be; 
For  time's  the  childhood  of  eternity. 

Again  the  vessel  spreads  her  snowy  wings, 
And  o'er  the  sea  her  giant-shadow  flings. 
The  land  is  lost  to  sight,  the  verdant  hue 
Of  ocean  passes  to  a  changeless  blue; 


36  INDECISION. 

And  day  by  day,  they  vainly  strive  to  trace, 
The  marks  of  progress  o'er  the  circled  space. 
There  is  an  onward  motion,  but  the  same 
Unvaried  surface  with  the  morning-  came, 
And  gloriously  each  evening  sun  descends, 
With  disk  prolong'd  to  meet  accustom'd  friends; 
Who  heave  to  kiss  him,  as  he  drops  to  rest, 
And  plants  his  wearied  foot  on  ocean's  breast. 
There  is  no  emblem  of  eternity 
Like  that  unvaried  sameness  of  the  sea. 
The  waves,  the  sky,  the  circle,  still  appear, 
As  yesterday. — There  seems  no  progress  there. 
But  there  was  progress;  for  the  open  look, 
Its  noble  home  in  Norman's  face  forsook; 
And  scowling  jealousy — suspicion  dire, 
And  causeless  hatred,  lit  his  eye  with  fire. 
The  sea  is  restless,  but  its  billows  sleep, 
In  calmness  sometimes,  on  the  wildest  deep; 
But  Norman's  burning  eye  was  never  hid 
Beneath  the  shelter  of  its  swollen  lid. 
Sleep  fled  his  heated  pillow.     In  the  air, 
The  cool  sea-air  he  loved  to  make  his  lair, 


INDECISION.  37 

For  that  would  fan  his  fever-heated  brain, 

And  sooth'd  the  vague  unutterable  pain, 

Which  rests  its  gnawing  tooth  on  that  strange  link, 

Where  matter  trembles  upon  spirit's  brink, 

And  in  mysterious  collocation  lie, 

The  pangs  of  time,  and  of  eternity. 

He  seem'd,  in  that  sweet  sphere,  where  once  his  soul 
Acknowledg'd  but  affection's  kind  control, 
To  drink  in  fury  from  the  very  eye, 
Whose  smile  before,  to  him,  was  extacy. 
A  very  tiger  cag'd,  he  snarl'd  at  all, 
Save  that  weak  child,  at  whose  imperious  call, 
He  came  submissive — like  a  slave,  obey'd 
His  most  capricious  whim,  as  if  afraid 
Of  him,  in  playful  menace. — Was  it  love, 
The  fondling  instinct  of  the  gentle  dove, 
Or  but  a  symptom  of  the  morbid  fire 
That  changes  hate  to  love,  and  love  to  ire  ? 

It  was,  when  from  herself  she  could  not  hide 
The  startling  truth  from  which  she  turn'd  aside 
So  long  and  oft,  that  Emma's  patience  failed, 
And  slowly  to  her  mournful  lot  she  quailed. 
4 


38  INDECISION. 

It  was  some  solace  to  her  heart  to  find 

His  loss  of  love  to  her,  was  loss  of  mind. 

It  sooth'd  her  hopeless  sorrow  to  reflect 

That  those  who  most  are  lov'd,  when  reason's  wreck'd 

Are  hated  most,  as  wintry  spoils  deface 

The  most  that  spot  the  richest  flowrets  grace. 

But  yet  her  heart  was  chill'd,  as,  day  by  day, 

She  watched  the  searing  progress  of  decay; 

And,  banish'd — lonely — not  a  friendly  eye, 

To  shed  with  her  the  tear  of  sympathy, 

She  saw  the  serpent  coiled  upon  the  breast 

In  which  alone  her  heart  could  look  for  rest; 

And  desolation,  utter,  hopeless,  wild, 

Assail'd  her  bosom.     But  for  that  dear  child, 

And  love  for  him,  that  could  not  be  repress'd, 

She  would  have  passed  away,  and  been  at  rest. 

The  rock  that  dashed  the  stormy  seas  aside, 

And  proudly  ocean's  utmost  force  defied, 

Submits,  tho'  slowly,  to  the  gentlest  play 

Of  ceaseless  waters,  till  it  melts  away. 

'Twas  so  with  Emma's  heart;  the  love,  that  stood 

The  sudden  outbreaks  of  his  wildest  mood, 


INDECISION.  39 

Wither'd  before  the  unrelenting  guile, 
Whose  petty  arts  were  cover'd  by  a  smile. 
She  could  not  summon  to  her  aid  the  pride 
That  sudden  insult  rouses — and  she  died. 

It  was  a  wild  departure.— Sorrow  grasp'd 
Her  loosen'd  heart-strings,  as  her  child  she  clasp'd, 
And  as  she  watched  her  husband's  callous  air, 
There  darken'd  once,  a  moment  of  despair. 
'Twas  gone;  and  o'er  the  darkness  flash'd  a  ray 
Of  joy  angelic,  earnest  of  its  day; 
Bright  as  the  sky-flash  from  above, 
When  Bethlehem's  angels  came  in  love, 
To  tell  benighted  shepherds  there 
The  advent  of  creation's  heir. 
The  eye  was  rais'd,  the  eyelids  nearer  drew, 
As  if  in  effort,  for  a  shaded  view, 
Too  dazzling  for  a  mortal's  veilless  sight; 
And  death's  pale  face,  was  flushing  with  delight. 
"  I  see,  I  see  the  glory  of  the  skies, 
How  lovely,  oh  how  lovely !     Angel-eyes, 
Like  stars  are  beaming  on  the  crystal  wall 
Of  Heaven;  their  glorious  wings  expand — they  call ! 


40  INDECISION. 

Hark,  hark !     Extatic  sounds  like  these,  on  earth, 
Amidst  its  sinful  children,  have  no  birth. 
The  gross  air  could  not  in  obedience  move, 
To  such  seraphic  sounds  of  joy  and  love. 
Oh  tell  me,  blest  ones,  ere  I  wing  my  way, 
To  drink  the  streams  that  in  Elysium  play, 
Oh  tell,  to  soothe  the  bitter  pangs  that  lie 
Across  my  path  to  blest  eternity, 

Shall  these,  my  lov'd  ones,  lov'd,  alas,  too  well, 

With  me  in  yonder  glorious  mansion  dwell ! 

Ha !  cherub  !  cherub  !  whither  fly  so  fast  1 

He  pauses  in  the  crystal  air  at  last ! 

His  rosy  wings,  in  graceful  circles,  play; 

He  flies  again  to  earth,  away,  away ! 

How  sweet  the  glory  beaming  round  his  head, 

What  soften'd  rays  his  shining  features  shed. 

'Tis  he,  'tis  he !  my  own  celestial  boy, 

Ennobled,  but  unaltered  by  his  joy. 

I  see  him,  infant  still !  not  long  to  be 

A  batter'd  sail  on  time's  tempestuous  sea! 

My  child  will  soon  rejoin  me  in  the  sky  ! 
Now,  kind  ones,  tell  me  Norman's  destiny. 


INDECISION.  41 

What,  sad  !  celestial  ones  !  oh  hear  my  cry, 
Ah  why,  the  last  request  of  life  deny  1 
See,  floating  slowly  thro'  the  distant  air, 
Descends  a  spirit,  not  with  golden  hair, 
Like  that  on  cherub-shoulders — silver  hue'd, 
His  locks  are  o'er  his  forehead  thinly  strew'd: 
And  on  his  radiant  features  marks  of  care 
Are  deeply  furrow'd;  still  a  thoughtful  air 
Tempers  his  bliss. — I  see,  alas,  I  see 
A  life  of  pain,  my  husband,  yet  for  thee. 
Perhaps  the  trials  sent  by  Prescient  Love, 
Are  meant  to  fit  thee  for  the  fields  above. 
If  such  thy  lot,  I  pray  that  every  woe, 
May  from  the  treasury  of  mercy  flow, 
That  God  who  wounds,  may  every  sorrow  bless, 
Nor  strike  one  blow,  save  for  thy  happiness." 

A  moment  o'er  his  face,  as  Norman  drew 
Close  to  the  couch,  a  shade  of  feeling  flew, 
And  audibly  he  utter'd  an  Amen; 
And  backward  fell  into  his  gloom  again. 
A  smile  of  triumph  kindled  as  she  heard, 
From  him  she  lov'd,  the  deeply  meaning  word; 


42  INDECISION. 

And  pointing  upward  with  her  wither'd  finger, 

She  faintly  murmur'd. — "  Father,  let  me  linger 

No  longer  now ! — My  husband,  soon  you'll  see 

The  land  we  go  to;  thither  carry  rne, 

And  when  my  babe  departs,  and  is  at  rest, 

Oh  lay  his  head  upon  his  mother's  breast. 

The  gloomy  hour  of  death  less  dark  will  be, 

If  I  may  hope,  my  babe,  to  sleep  with  thee." 

A  gentle  kiss  was  heard;  her  hand  was  there, 

In  tender  love,  among  his  golden  hair. 

"  Bless,  bless  thee,  boy !"  the  rest  was  lost;  for  she, 

With  angels,  glitter'd  in  eternity. 


INDECISION.  43 


PART  SECOND. 

THE  startled  night  before  the  morning  flies, 
And  calls  obedient  vapours  from  the  skies, 
And  from  the  burning  bosom  of  the  east, 
Retreating  sullenly,  attempts  to  rest, 
Behind  the  hills.— In  vain !— The  sun  has  hurl'd 
His  fatal  arrows,  and  behind  the  world, 
Itself  he  hides,  to  shun  the  dreaded  light, 
And  in  his  cloudy  car  pursues  his  ceaseless  flight, 

A  beaming  point  just  tips  the  doubtful  verge 
Where  sea  and  sky,  their  dubious  colours  merge, 
And  up  at  one  bright  leap,  in  glory  springs 
The  sun,  and  o'er  the  ocean  spreads  his  wings. 
Along  the  rippling  waters,  golden  light, 
A  trembling  causeway  paves,  so  pure,  so  bright, 
A  path  to  Heaven,  it  seems  to  fancy's  eye, 
Continued  upward  thro'  the  yellow  sky, 


44  INDECISION. 

In  clouds  like  cluster'd  gems  of  every  hue, 

To  pale  the  ruby's  blush  and  shame  the  sapphire's  blue. 

The  sportive  dolphin,  like  a  floating1  flower, 

Of  thousand  tints,  adorns  his  waving  bower. 

The  curving  porpoise,  on  the  crested  pride 

Of  curling  billows,  takes  his  liquid  ride; 

And  silver  flying  fishes  dash  away 

Before  the  breeze,  and  in  the  sunbeams  play. 

There  is  a  freshness  in  the  breezy  air; 

There  is  a  joyous  spirit  every  where. 

The  ship  alone,  in  sorrow's  ensigns  drcss'd, 

No  longer  waves  her  standard  on  her  crest, 

But  there,  half-mast,  its  heavy  folds  repose, 

The  gloomy  signal  of  internal  woes. 

Death,  always  mournful,  ever  seems  to  be 

A  drearier  thing  upon  the  lonely  sea. 

All  know,  all  mourn,  all  speak  of  her  who  dies, 

And  as  the  death  sign  o'er  the  ocean  flies 

Still   sport  the  ceaseless  waves    and  laugh  the  jocund 

skies. 

The  very  contrast  deepens  the  distress 
And  pride  is  tutor'd  into  humbleness. 


INDECISION.  45 

The  father  felt  its  pressure.— On  the  rail 
He  held  his  child.     His  cheek,  was  cold  and  pale, 
But  ever  as  the  prattler,  full  of  glee, 
Leap'd  to  the  prancings  of  the  lively  sea, 
A  smile  of  unaccustom'd  pleasure  play'd 
Around  his  mouth,  but  never  farther  stray'd. 

In  deep  abstraction  lost,  he  did  not  hear, 
As  chang'd  the  breeze,  the  order  to  prepare 
To  "  put  the  ship  about."— The  bustling  crew, 
Each  to  allotted  station,  quickly  flew; 
And  as  the  "spanker  gib'd,"  the  cry  "look  out, 
Look  out,  stoop  down,"  was  heard.     The  friendly  shout, 
Unnotic'd  came  to  him. — The  ponderous  beam 
Swept  off  the  child. — The  universal  scream 
Of  horror  told  his  fate,  as  o'er  his  head 
The  swinging  vessel  roll'd.     An  instant  dread 
Palsied  the  crew;  but  soon  the  callous  sea 
Was  fill'd  with  searchers;  but,  oh  misery, 
Their  little  pet,  their  playful  boy  was  gone; 
The  fatal  blow  ! — His  corse  is  there  alone. 

The  boom  had  struck  poor  Norman  to  the  deck, 
And  there  he  lay  unconscious  of  the  wreck 


4G  INDECISION. 

Of  his  last  treasure,  till  the  sudden  grief 
That  wrung-  the  crew,  had  found  in  tears  relief, 
And  each  rough  son  of  storm  in  turn  had  shed 
A  pious  drop  upon  the  orphan's  head; 
Then  sympathy  for  him,  who  most  should  be 
Afflicted,  brought  a  friendly  scrutiny. 
They  found  him  senseless;  mercifully  so; 
For  how  could  frame,  or  reason  bear  the  blow  ? 

The  gallant  vessel  to  the  harbour  drives, 
While  slowly  Norman  from  his  swoon  revives; 
And  when  they  bear  the  corses  to  the  earth, 
And  mourn  the  budding  hope,  the  blossom'd  worth, 
He  follows,  idiot-like,  the  solemn  show, 
And  wonders  at  the  tears  that  round  him  flow. 
He  mov'd  not  as  the  earth  received  its  trust, 
Nor  seem'd  to  hear  the  awful  "dust  to  dust;" 
But  when  they  turn'd  to  leave  the  finish'd  grave, 
One  heavy  sigh  the  isolated  gave, 
And  with  a  look  of  doubtful  meaning  sought 
The  names  of  those  who  to  the  grave  were  brought. 
"  It  is  your  wife,  your  child." 

"  Mine !  wife  and  child  ! 
You  will  not  leave  them  in  this  lonely  wild?" 


INDECISION.  47 

Nor  prayers,  nor  gentle  force,  could  draw  him  thence, 

But  there  he  sat  upon  a  ruin'd  fence; 

And  day  and  night  he  watched  the  lonely  mound, 

And  planted  flowers  and  thistles  all  around, 

As  if  at  once  to  grace  and  to  protect 

The  desert  spot  from  insult,  or  neglect. 

No  food  he  tasted,  save  when  brought  by  those, 

His  friendly  shipmates,  who  had  known  his  woes. 

One  day  they  miss'd  him — waited  long  in  vain, 

The  next,  return'd  to  search  the  place  again. 

He  was  not  there.     The  cherish'd  grave  defiower'd, 

Was  torn  and  ruin'd;  wandering  brutes  devour'd, 

Before  their  eyes,  the  shrubs,  and  all  around 

The  deep  impress  of  careless  steps  was  found. 

The  soften'd  surface  of  the  recent  grave 

Display'd  the  struggling  marks  he  made  to  save, 

And  broken  fragments  of  a  rope  were  there; 

While  tooth-marks  on  the  very  earth  declare, 

How  fierce  his  efforts,  bitter  his  despair. 

The  summer  pass'd  away,  the  autumn  came, 
But  still  the  ruin'd  grave  remain'd  the  same. 


48  INDECISION. 

The  rains  of  winter  swept  the  grassless  mound, 
And  yet  no  hand  to  close  its  clefts  was  found. 
The  spring  return'd  to  see  it  desolate, 
While  on  its  humid  surface  sadly  sate 
A  faded  form.— That  low,  scarce  obvious  tomb, 
Distinguished  only  by  the  youthful  bloom 
Of  Scottish  thistles,  fixed  his  mournful  eye, 
And  tears  were  shed  of  bitter  memory. 
There  was  a  sallow  paleness  on  his  face, 
Which  did  not  seem  of  malady  the  trace, 
But  rather  spoke  of  one,  who  from  the  light 
Had  long  been  hidden  in  unwholesome  night; 
Whose  stormy  passions,  wild,  prolong'd,  severe, 
Had  clos'd  the  heart  to  either  hope  or  fear. 
He  seem'd  as  if  the  world  had  nought  to  give 
For  which  he  deign'd  to  ask,  or  car'd  to  live. 
With  feeble  hands,  he  rear'd  the  fallen  mound, 
And  placed  transplanted  thistles  all  around; 
Then  gazing  long  and  mournfully,  he  threw 
Himself  upon  the  earth,  while  tears  bedew 
Its  cold,  cold  bosom. 

"  Emma,  fare  thee  well; 
To  leave  thee  thus,  oh  who  my  grief  may  tell ! 


INDECISION.  49 

There's  none  on  earth,  my  love,  for  thee  to  care; 

And  yet  to  watch  thy  grave,  ia  more  than  I  can  hear. 

My  Oscar,  too  !  my  son,  adieu,  adieu  ! 

My  heart,  where'er  I  fly,  will  mourn  for  you." 

Emotion  stifled  speech.     He  wiped  a  tear, 

And  plucked  memorials  from  a  thistle  near, 

And,  to  the  West's  gigantic  solitude, 

Retreated,  hoping  man  might  ne'er  intrude 

On  sorrow's  isolation-loving  mood. 

There,  at  his  feet,  the  squirrel  sported  free, 
The  beaver  hid  not  from  his  harmless  eye, 
The  timid  fawn  cropp'd  roses  from  his  tree, 
Nor  did  the  bison  from  his  rifle  fly. 
He  knew  too  well  the  hue  of  misery, 
To  cast  its  sombrous  livery  o'er  the  place, 
The  Indian,  even,  shar'd  his  sympathy, 
And  hated  less,  for  him,  the  white  man's  face. 

But  scarcely  had  he  form'd  his  woodland  ties, 
Ere  forest-echo  to  the  axe  replies, 
And  tree,  and  Indian,  buffalo,  and  deer, 
Before  the  living  torrent  disappear. 
5 


50  INDECISION. 

He  would  have  fled  again;  but  whither,  whither ! 

To  the  "Far  "West!"  the  onward  march  is  thither; 

And  solitude  is  scarcely  woo'd  and  won, 

Ere  crashing  forests  fall,  and  solitude  is  gone. 

His  cahin  too  was  dear  to  him,  for  there 

He  woke  to  reason  from  his  dark  despair; 

And  there,  the  solace  of  his  moody  hours, 

His  giant  thistle  grew,  his  flower  of  flowers, 

Bound  to  his  bosom  by  the  sweetest  tics, 

For  in  his  honour'd  country's  flag  it  flies, 

And  guards  alone  the  grave  where  all  his  treasure  lies. 

But  fortune's  fickle,  not  in  smiles  alone; 
A  ray  of  joy  may  light  her  darkest  frown; 
In  clouds  she  loves  her  purest  stars  to  set, 
As  goldsmiths  place  their  brightest  gerns  in  jet. 
Though  busy  neighbours  mark'd  his  sullen  mood, 
And  seldom  sought  his  shaded  solitude, 
There  sometimes  stole  upon  his  primal  bower, 
To  catch  the  wood-notes,  or  the  forest  flower, 
A  gentle  spirit,  frank  Virginia's  child, 
Whose  young  romantic  heart  had  blossom'd  in  the  wild. 


INDECISION.  51 

Her  taste,  her  language,  singular,  not  rude, 
Back  to  the  lone-one's  breast  his  softness  woo'd; 
And,  as  she  sang  the  music  of  his  hills, 
A  Scottish  mother's  gift,  his  bosom  thrills; 
And,  to  his  heart,  forgotten  transports  throng, 
As  flows  the  sweetness  of  the  Doric  song: 
For  Scotia's  simple  ballads  pleas'd  not  less, 
From  beauty's  coral  lip,  in  Indian  wilderness. 

Of  nature,  too,  they  talk'd,  where  tree  and  flower, 
In  wild  profusion,  round  the  woodman's  bower, 
Exhaustless  source  became,  of  simple  bliss, — 
An  unadulterated  happiness. 

Such  hearts,  so  occupied,  are  much  in  danger. 
He  taught,  admir'd,  esteem'd,  and  lov'd  the  stranger; 
And  she,  amidst  that  wild,  uncourtly  throng, 
Lov'd  him  who  prais'd  her  flowrets  and  her  song. 
Though  not  a  beau  quite  suited  to  her  age, — 
The  beau  ideal,  then,  was  all  her  rage; — 
She  thought  she  lov'd  from  pure  philosophy; 
And  he,  because  she  had  his  Emma's  eye, 
And  Emma's  hair,  and — twenty  reasons  why. 


52  INDECISION. 

Capricious  Love  delights  in  varied  wiles, 

And  some  by  frowns  he  Avins  and  some  by  smiles. 

He  some,  like  Gulliver,  enchains  by  hairs, 

And  others  with  a  golden  bait  ensnares. 

But  strange  necessity  his  marriage  brought, 

When  marriage  farthest  seem'd  from  Norman's  thought. 

For,  when  allured  to  life  and  hope  again, 

lie  felt  in  Ella's  converse  ease  from  pain, 

Such  mental  pain  as  few  could  live  to  bear, 

She  came  no  more  the  hermit's  grief  to  share, 

And  burning  blushes  flush'd  her  fading  cheek, 

When  questioned,  why,  she  "dress'd,"  the  woods  to  seek. 

In  vain,  at  length,  the  wild  bird  charm'd  the  air, 
The  wild  rose  blossom'd,  Ella  was  not  there; 
Whose  look  of  gladness  pour'd  into  his  heart 
A  bliss  lone  nature  never  could  impart. 

Despite  his  mood  ascetic — from  his  shade, 
So  long  his  shelter,  anxious  Norman  stray'd; 
While  wondering  neighbours  mark'd  his  bashful  air 
And  smiPd  to  see  the  solitary  there. 
Of  various  themes  he  talk'd,  but  yet  his  eye 
Was  fix'd  in  deep  abstraction — he  would  fly 


INDECISION.  53 

Away  from  subjects  ho  himself  had  broached, 
While  distant  topics  suddenly  gncroach'd. 
At  length,  among  the  gossip  of  the  place, 
He  heard,  by  chance,  what  foiled  his  art  to  trace. 
The  star  of  his  lone  heaven  was  waning  fast, 
His  flower  of  life  was  bending  to  the  blast, 
And  he  might  hope  no  more  on  earth  to  see 
The  only  living  thing  that  touch'd  his  sympathy. 

With  care  he  question'd — learn'd  the  present  source 
Of  danger  to  her,  bent  his  thoughtful  course, 
Away,  beneath  the  forest's  wildest  bowers, 
To  pluck  the  roots,  and  crop  the  healing  flowers; 
And  then,  by  friendly  hands,  the  gift  convey'd 
To  her,  for  whom  he  toil'd,  for  whom  he  pray'd. 

The  prudent  mother  gave  them  as  they  carne, 
But  cautiously  concealed  the  giver's  name. 
In  vain  her  care !  the  lips  began  to  pale, 
The  lustrous  glory  of  the  eye  to  fail; 
Delirium  follow'd,  and  her  fever'd  brain 
Restor'd  her  fancy  to  the  wilds  again; 
And  Norman's  virtue,  Norman's  lessons  hung, 
In  burning  accents,  on  her  ceaseless  tongue. 
5* 


o4  INDECISION. 

The  faithful  African,  whose  tireless  knee 
Had  been  her  resting  place  in  infancy, 
By  nature  taught,  discern'd  both  bane  and  cure, 
And  said  "no  hand  can  remedies  insure, 
But  that  which  pluck'd  them. — Other  hands  may  give 
These  draughts  in  vain — if  Norman  come,  she'll  live." 

He  came.     Why  tell,  what  all,  who  love,  must  know, 
How  fast  the  cure  at  first,  at  last  how  slow  1 
For,  when  the  roses  of  her  welfare  tell, 
And  love's  physician  takes  his  last  farewell, 
A  single  day  of  absence  summons  pain, 
And  brings  the  lily  to  the  cheek  again. 

A  buried  love  is  sacred  to  the  heart, 
And  cannot,  save  with  bitter  throes,  depart. 
It  seems  like  treason  to  the  flower  that  dies, 
When  love,  to  any  living  blossom,  flies. 
So  Norman  thought,  when  on  his  solitude 
Officious  memory  struggled  to  intrude, 
And  brought  him  back  to  tenderness  and  tears, 
For  things  and  scenes  of  love's  departed  years. 
But  memory  fled,  and  love  usurp'd  once  more 
An  undivided  sway,  when,  at  her  door, 


INDECISION.  55 

He  saw  his  Ella's  eye  with  transport  burn, 
And  graceful  blushes  welcome  his  return. 
And,  when  she  spoke  of  solitary  hours, 
Whose  dreary  movement,  not  her  fairest  flowers, 
Her  sweetest  birds,  could  charm — he  felt  a  throe, 
He  thought  of  pity— reader,  was  it  so  ] 
He  could  not  doom  her  to  a  life  of  woe  ! 

He  mourn'd  the  indecision,  which  delay'd 
Abrupt  departure,  'till  the  simple  maid 
Had  wreck'd  her  heart  upon  that  gloomy  shoal 
Of  bitter  recollections — Norman's  soul. 
There  was  a  fearful  tale  he  long'd  to  tell, 
But  courage  fail'd  him  ere  the  secret  fell 
From  faltering  tongue.     He  lov'd,  alas,  too  wrell, 
Too  madly,  and  he  could  not  bear  to  cast 
His  fate  upon  unwelcome  truth  at  last. 
Oh,  had  he  trusted  to  that  young  heart's  love, 
He  would  have  found  the  eagle  in  the  dove, 
Firm  to  her  purpose,  steadfast  in  her  faith, 
And  where  her  heart  approv'd,  his  votary  to  death. 
Alas,  for  Love  !  in  all  things  else  so  brave, 
Why  should  he  be,  to  fear  of  change,  a  slave  1 


5G  INDECISION. 

Man's  wrath,  the  frown  of  fortune,  he  defies; 
But  from  the  shadow  of  indifference  flies. 

As  happen'd  oft  before  in  Norman's  fate, 
He  hesitated,  'till  it  was  too  late, 
And,  spite  of  living  dread,  and  buried  love, 
And  mystery  untold,  another  dove 
Folded  its  wings  upon  his  fated  breast, 
In  trustful  happiness,  and  sank  to  rest. 

Lone  idlesse  suits  not  Yankee  wedded  life, 
A  brood  of  cherubs  makes  a  busy  wife; 
And  husbands,  too,  must  clear,  and  plough,  and  harrow. 
And,  to  the  farm,  the  sage's  wisdom  narrow. 

With  fields  and  labour,  wealth  and  honours  came; 
The  farmer  soon  attain'd  the  general's  name, 
And  justice  threw  to  him  the  reigns  of  law, 
To  keep  the  hard-mouth'd  populace  in  awe. 

Among  the  prisoners,  few  and  far  between, 
Who  broke  the  peace  of  that  secluded  scene, 
One  came,  whose  aspect  told  a  life  of  crime, 
Where  passion's  ploughshare  did  the  work  of  time. 

The  proofs  of  guilt  were  clear. — Opinion,  too, 
Severely  censur'd,  for  the  crime  was  new 


INDECISION.  57 

To  regions  where  deliberate  sin  could  plead 

No  strong  impulsion  from  the_hand  of  need. 

Each  witness  leaned,  as  usual  in  such  cases, 

Against  the  hapless  wight,  the  law  disgraces, 

And  public  expectation,  seldom  just, 

Too  often  cruel,  to  excesses  thrust, 

The  venal  counsel.     But  the  judge,  to  win 

A  gentler  feeling  for  the  man  of  sin, 

Each  witness  question'd,  kindly  to  draw  forth, 

If  possible,  some  little  trait  of  worth. 

There  was  a  solemn  tone  in  all  he  said, 

But  deepest,  then,  when  of  his  wounded  head 

He  strangely  question'd.     Had  the  heavy  blow 

Disturb'd  his  reason:  "did  he  seem  to  know 

The  boundaries  of  right,  or  act  like  one, 

Who  fought  for  what  he  but  esteemed  his  own  1" 

A  look  of  disappointed  feeling  pass'd 

Across  his  face,  as,  baffled  to  the  last, 

He  ceased  to  favour;  while  the  restive  crowd 

Express'd  disapprobation,  aye,  aloud. 

The  storm  of  eloquent  contention  o'er, 
The  judge,  amidst  his  charge  of  legal  lore, 


58  INDECISION. 

Essay 'd,  with  prefatory  hints,  to  show 

The  gentlest  shadows  of  the  coming  woe; 

For  he  had  been  a  sufferer,  and  he  knew 

To  temper  that  which  duty  made  him  do. 

He  chiefly  dwelt  upon  the  culprit's  wound — 

Its  influence  on  his  mind. — There  might  be  found 

In  that,  perhaps,  a  reason  for  a  crime, 

So  new,  so  useless,  in  that  happy  clime. 

The  charge  was  o'er — the  verdict  "  guilty"  given, 

The  welkin  with  applauses  rudely  riven, 

And  breathless  with  attention,  all  await 

The  "  Court's"  decision  of  the  victim's  fate. 

Replying  to  the  "  Have  you  aught  to  plead, 

Why  sentence  should  not  pass?"  the  prisoner  said, 

He  hop'd  the  judge  would  lend  his  private  ear 

To  what  might  much  import  his  cause  to  hear. 

"  Express  it  openly,"  was  the  reply; 

"  We  must  irregularities  deny." 

"It  cannot  be;  the  secret  should  be  known, 
Important  as  it  is,  to  you  alone." 
With  hesitating  air,  the  judge  descends, 
And,  for  a  moment,  o'er  the  prisoner  bends, 


INDECISION.  59 

But  when  he  turn'd,  to  seek  his  usual  place, 

A  death-like  paleness  overspread  his  face. 

His  eye  seem'd  fix'd— his  step,  infirm  and  slow, 

Betoken'd  keen  extremity  of  woe; 

And  ere  he  reach'd  the  "bench,"  his  frame  gave  way 

And  kind  oblivion  came  his  anguish  to  allav. 
The  prisoner  saw,  next  day,  the  judge  descend, 

Bow'd  by  a  secret  dread,  to  be  his  friend, 

To  strain  the  law,  to  break  his  iron  chain, 

And  let  him  loose,  to  practise  crime  again. 

But  vain  the  task  of  guilty  compromise  ! 

The  scoundrel's  claims  in  due  proportion  rise, 

To  slavish  dread;  and  in  his  wealth  to  share, 
The  felon  brought  his  jail-companions  there; 
Whose  wild  carousal,  from  his  neighbours  drew 
Sad  surmise  of  some  dreadful  truth  they  knew. 
His  friends  remonstrate,  and  his  wife  bewails; 
But  all  in  vain !  to  shame  his  spirit  quails; 
And  he,  who  would  have  brav'd  the  bursting  shell, 
Before  the  phantom  of  dishonour  fell; 
Pale,  silent,  moody,  shunning,  shunn'd  by  all, 
Attentive  solely  to  the  ceaseless  call 


GO  INDECISION. 

For  "  money,  money;"  till  his  friends  were  gone, 

His  store  exhausted,  and  his  wife  alone, 

Of  all  his  rich  possessions,  left  to  share 

His  faded  fortunes,  and  his  dark  despair. 

But  she,  amidst  that  fearful  wreck  of  mind, 

Confiding  still,  not  hopeless,  hut  resign'd, 

Like  that  lone  flower,  that  bless'd  the  traveller's  eye, 

On  Afric's  sands,  when  just  ahout  to  die,* 

*  "I  saw  myself,"  says  Park,  "  in  the  midst  of  a  vast  wilder 
ness,  in  the  depths  of  the  rainy  season,  naked  and  alone,  sur 
rounded  by  savage  animals  and  men  still  more  savage.  " 
I  considered  my  fate  as  certain,  and  that  I  had  no  alternative, 
but  to  lie  down  and  perish.  *  *  *  At  this  moment,  painful 
as  my  reflections  were,  the  extraordinary  beauty  of  a  small 
moss,  in  fructification,  irresistibly  caught  my  eye.  *  * 
Though  the  whole  plant  was  not  longer  than  the  top  of  one  of 
my  fingers,  I  could  not  contemplate  the  delicate  conformation 
of  its  roots,  leaves,  and  capsula,  without  admiration.  Can  that 
Being,  thought  I,  who  planted,  watered,  and  brought  to  perfec 
tion,  in  this  obscure  part  of  the  Avorld,  a  thing  which  appears 
of  so  small  importance,  look  with  unconcern  upon  the  situation 
and  sufferings  of  creatures  formed  after  his  own  image?  Surely 
not!  Reflections  like  these  would  not  allow  me  to  despair.  I 
started  up  and  disregarding  both  hunger  and  fatigue,  travelled 
forwards,  assured  that  relief  was  at  hand;  and  Itvas  not  disap- 
pointed. "-—Travels,  &cc.,  in  1795,  &c.;  by  Mungo  Park,  e.  XIX. 


INDECISION.  61 

She  cheer'd  his  fainting  soul  with  hope,  and  gave 
The  nerve  to  conquer,  and  the  skill  to  save. 

October's  setting  sun,  with  yellow  ray, 
Enrich'd  the  close  of  autumn's  mellow  day, 
And  soften'd  light  a  graceful  glory  lent 
To  evening's  cloud-enamel'd  firmament; 
While  far  below,  the  forest  seem'd  to  be 
The  pictur'd  sky's  reflected  scenery. 
There  yellow  birch*  exalts  its  saffron  brow, 
And  scarlet  oaksf  their  crimson  honours  show, 
Red  maple^:  there,  profusely  scatter'd  round, 
More  brightly  flushes  on  the  verdant  ground 
Of  clustering  cedars.     There  the  sombre  pine 
Contrasts  the  swamp-gum's§  Tyrian  tinctur'd  red, 
And  there,  empurpled  by  the  five-leaved  vine,[| 
The  lemon-colour'd^f  hickory  rears  its  head. 

*  Bctula  Excelsa. 

f  Quercus  Robur. 

$  Acer  Rub  rum. 

§  Tupelo. 

||  Ampelopsis  Quinquefolia. 

1  Carya. 

6 


62  INDECISION. 

While  shrub-like  sumach*  waving  far  below, 

Blends  with  the  dog-wood's  redf  its  ruby  glow. 

In  brilliant  contrast  foliage,  foliage  mocks, 

And  mosses  even,  on  fantastic  rocks, 

Seem  emulous  of  colours,  such  as,  riven 

From  rainbows,  might  have  glow'd  before  in  heaven. 

Winter  may  be  sublime,  and  summer  shed 
A  waving  richness  o'er  the  earth's  dark  bed, 
And,  flush'd  with  sweetness,  zephyr-stirring  spring 
Salute  the  air  with  blossom-woven  wing, 
But,  mournful  autumn,  how  I  love  thy  tone, 
Exalted,  forest-king,  upon  thy  throne 
Of  many  hues — thy  prey,  as  other  kings, 
The  sad  magnificence  of  dying  things. 
The  pride  of  conquer'd  forests  round  thee  glows, 
And  swan-like  leaves  seem  sweetest  at  the  close. 
For  taste,  for  joy,  a  gayer  season  choose, 
But,  child  of  sorrow,  hither  come  to  muse. 
Oh,  let  the  sentimental  season  fling 
Its  softness  o'er  thy  harp's  repining  string, 

*  Rims  Glabrum  and  Typhincum. 
t  Cornus  Florida. 


INDECISION.  63 

And  woo  thee  from  thy  solitary  woes 

To  drop  a  soothing  tear  on  nature's  dying  throes. 

Long,  long,  had  Norman's  round  unwinking  eye 
Been  fasten'd  on  that  fading  scenery, 
And  bending  chest,  and  pendent  hands  declare 
The  noble  soul's  immersion  in  despair, 
Defeated  reason's  utter  listlessness, 
A  grief  too  deep  for  knowledge  of  distress; 
While  she,  his  angel,  gazing  on  his  face, 
In  vain  essay'd  a  thoughtful  line  to  trace. 

"0  Norman,  Norman,  why  should  we  despair, 
Amid  these  passing  glories  of  the  year; 
For  which  there's  none  to  weep !  oh,  who  would  be 
A  leaf,  to  die,  unknown  to  sympathy. 
How  sweetly  moralising  White*  has  said, 

4  The  autumn-leaf  is  sear  and  dead, 

It  floats  upon  the  water's  bed; 

I  would  not  be  a  leaf  to  die, 

Without  recording  sorrow's  sigh  !'  " 
"  Who'll  sigh  for  me — for  blasted  Norman,  who  1 
What  feeling  tear  his  hated  grave  bedew  1 

*  Henry  Kirk  White. 


64  INDECISION. 

No !  let  no  friendly  hand  upheave  his  mound, 
But  ploughshares  level  the  dishonour'd  ground — 
That  none  may  ask,  nor  children  blush  to  hear, 
'Whose  tomb  is  that?'  " 

"  A — fel— oil's  buried  there." 
"  A  felon  !  Norman !  Norman !  cursed  be 
The  tongue,  though  thine,  that  gives  that  name  to  thee ! 
Thou  art  no  felon  !  honour  never  sate 
On  any  brow  in  more  unquestion'd  state. 
Thy  purity  of  soul  too  long  I've  seen 
To  think  corruption  ever  there  has  been. 
There  is  a  drear  delusion,  which,  of  late, 
Has  bent  thy  spirit  to  the  frown  of  fate: 
Oh  trust  the  fatal  secret  to  thy  wife, 
My  husband— friend— for  thee  I'd  give  my  life ! 
Nay,  do  not  spurn  me  from  thee— never !  never ! 
Can  aught  but  death  thy  fate  from  mine  dissever. 
Oh,  by  the  wild-wood  love,  which  first  I  knew, 
When,  led  by  thee,  I  brush'd  the  morning  dew; 
Oh,  by  the  helpless  pledges  of  our  love, 
Back  to  our  Ark !— we  have  no  other  dove  ! 
By  Him  who  made  this  sweet  and  soothing  scene, 
Oh,  be  to  us,  what  He  to  thee  has  been. 


INDECISION.  65 

I  am  no  Eve  to  tempt  my  lord  to  sin, 
To  this  dear  Eden  let  no  serpent  in." 

Such  were  her  words,  but  how  can  poet  tell 
The  thrilling  tones  that  melodized  the  spell; 
Or  who  describe  the  more  than  mortal  grace 
That  wav'd  in  passion's  hand,  and  glow'd  in  beauty's  face. 

To  sullen  Norman's  wounded  soul  there  came, 
Thro'  care's  dark  clouds,  that  spirit-waking  flame, 
And,  as  he  listen'd  to  her  eloquence, 
Return'd  again  the  sage's  conquer' d  sense, 
And  tears,  whose  burning  fountains  long  were  dry, 
Glisten'd  again  in  sorrow's  faded  eye. 
"My  guardian  angel!"  more  he  could  not  say; 
Emotion  swept  all  utterance  away; 
And,  struggling  with  the  strong,  habitual  spell 
Of  dark  distrust,  into  her  arms  he  fell. 
The  long,  long  pause  evinc'd  the  mortal  strife 
Of  him  who  gaz'd,  in  doubt,  upon  his  wife; 
And  she,  inviting  hope,  yet  chill'd  by  dread, 
A  spirit  seem'd,  just  startled  from  the  dead; 
So  pale,  so  cold,  so  breathless,  so  intense, 
The  seeming  lifelessness  of  keen  suspense. 
6* 


GG  INDECISION. 

A  breeze  may  stir  the  waves,  a  storm  may  sweep 
Gigantic  billows  o'er  the  angry  deep, 
But,  when  the  hurricane  careers  at  will, 
The  surges  quail,  the  whiten' d  sea  is  still. 


INDECISION.  G7 


PART  THIRD. 

"I  WOKE,  my  love,  from  fearful  dreams,  but  not 
To  perfect  consciousness.     A  clouded  spot 
Hung  on  my  soul's  horizon.     All  to  me 
Of  past  seem'd  wrapp'd  in  painful  mystery. — 
There  was  a  grave  before  me ;  wife  and  child, 
They  said,  rcpos'd  beneath  ;  and  drear,  and  wild, 
And  scorn'd  appear'd  the  place.     The  stranger's  tomb 
Had,  as  it  always  has,  a  careless  gloom, 
That  harmonised  with  my  lone  heart,  and  there 
I  watch'd,  and  wept,  and,  with  consoling  care, 
Collected  flowers,  it  little  matter'd  where, 
To  grace  that  desert-spot,  than  all  the  world  more  dear. 
I  never  turn'd  my  watchful  eyes  away 
From  that  unguarded  house  of  death,  by  day, 
Lest  beasts,  or  men  less  feeling,  should  deface 
The  marks  of  love,  and  desecrate  the  place: 


68  INDECISION. 

But,  when  the  gentle  eyes  of  screening  night 
Look'd  soothingly  from  heaven,  with  wild  delight, 
I  left  them  there  to  watch,  and  o'er  the  waste, 
The  shadowy  forms  of  madden'd  fancy  chas'd ; 
Or,  guided  by  congenial  lightnings,  found 
The  sweetest  shrubs  to  deck  the  sacred  ground. 
One  stormy  eve,  when  not  a  star  was  set 
In  night's  drcnch'd  pinions  of  unmingled  jet, 
And,  flashing  upwards  from  the  streaming  plain, 
Reflected  lightnings  flush'd  the  clouds  again, 
My  soul  exulted.     O'er  the  fields  I  fled, 
For  none,  on  such  a  night,  would  harm  the  dead; 
And  I  might  safely  yield  me  to  the  vein 
Of  vague  desire  for  motion,  to  which  pain, 
Extremes!  pain  is  pleasure. — On  I  flew, 
'Till  lofty  walls  obstructed  course  and  view. — 
I  reach'd  their  top,  and  saw  a  garden  fair, 
Whose  plants,  distributed  with  graceful  care, 
Look'd  wildly  up  beneath  the  lightning's  glare. 
Among  the  flowers,  the  plant  to  Scotchmen  dear 
Above  all  others  when  their  home  is  near, 


INDECISION.  69 

But  priceless  when  afar,  the  thistle  grew, 
And  from  my  lifted  spirit  loudly,  drew 
Exulting  shouts  ;  for  then  I  hop'd  to  save, 
With  fitting  emblems,  Scottish  Emma's  grave 
From  desecration. — Down  I  leap'd,  and  flew 
To  seize  my  prize,  and  easily  withdrew, 
From  cultur'd  earth,  the  thorny  flowers,  and  then 
With  transport  ran  to  bury  them  again. 
Another  stormy  night,  I  sought  the  place, 
But  men  and  dogs  were  there. — The  fearful  chase 
WTas  long  and  doubtful ;  but  at  length  they  found 
My  breathless  body  on  the  precious  mound, 
To  which  alone  I  fled,  when  sure  of  death. — 
I  stagger'd  thither,  that  my  latest  breath 
Might  there  exhale. — The  dashing  rain  restor'd 
My  strength  and  senses.     With  a  wrested  sword 
I  fought  as  if  for  life,  and  blood  was  shed, 
But  not  to  death ;  and  my  pursuers  fled. 
Returning  soon  with  added  force,  they  caught 
Me  unawares,  and  to  the  prison  brought 
My  almost  lifeless  frame. — To  tell  were  vain 
The  dreary  tale  of  trial,  sentence,  pain — 
Months  pass'd,  and  I  awoke  to  thought  again. 


70  INDECISION. 

"  I  found  the  stranger's  grave — but  oh!  how  lone 
And  ruin'd  seem'd  it !    Mound  and  flowers  were  gone  ! — 
Tho'  weak  and  sorrow-stricken,  long  I  strove 
Its  sickening  desolation  to  improve, 
And  then  I  turn'd  me  to  the  lonely  west, 
And  found,  in  forest-gloom,  a  sad  congenial  rest. 

"  Thou  know'st  the  sequel.     Oh  !  that  I  had  thrown 
My  dark  heart  open,  ere  thy  soul  had  known 
The  fierce  extreme  of  love.     But,  when  there  came 
The  dying  evidence  of  passion's  flame, 
I  could  not  bear  to  blight  the  only  flower 
That  bloorn'd  within  my  heart's  forsaken  bower; 
I  could  not  live  to  quench  the  only  ray 
That  beam'd  along  my  soul's  deserted  way. 
Without  thee,  I  had  been  that  nothingness 
Which  hope  deserts,  and  memory  cannot  bless, 
Incapable  of  joy,  unconscious  of  distress." 

Of  sorrow  and  of  wrong,  the  ingenuous  tale 
Came  as  the  night-dew  to  the  arid  vale, 
To  purge  the  air,  invigorate  the  soil, 
And  doubly  bless  the  peasant's  healthful  toil ! 


INDECISION.  71 

That  tale  unlock'd  the  anguish-burden'd  breast 
Of  him  who  spoke,  while  sweet-as  downy  nest 
To  wandering  dove,  when  droops  its  youngest  wing1, 
It  brought  a  balm  to  Ella's  sorrowing. 

The  last  faint  trace  of  day  had  ceas'd  to  smile 
On  lengthen' d  Alleghany's  waving  pile, 
And  clouds,  so  lately  bath'd  in  golden  light, 
Were  softly  silver'd  by  the  queen  of  night; 
And  one  by  one,  in  autumn's  deep  blue  sky, 
The  stars  put  forth  their  brightest  blazonry. 
O'er  darken'd  vales  the  mountain  shadows  slept, 
Through  dying  leaves  the  mournful  zephyr's  swept ; 
The  night  hawk's  scream,  the  moan  of  whip-poor-will, 
The  cricket's  cry,  the  tree  frog's  cadenc'd  trill ; 
The  panther's  hungry  howl,  the  wolf's  wild  bay, 
The  screech-owl's  requiem  o'er  departed  day, 
Conspire  to  cast  o'er  western  night  a  tone, 
To  other  lands,  however  wild,  unknown. 
The  very  clearness  of  the  air  is  drear, 
It  seems  to  bring  the  awful  blue  so  near ; 
And  that  wild  light  is  just  enough  to  show 
The  wildest  shapes  of  wildest  things  below — 


72  INDECISION. 

We  feel  as  if  too  near  the  panther's  swoop, 
We  pause  to  hear  the  Indian's  mortal  whoop  ; 
The  dead-grass,  rustling  in  the  fitful  gale, 
Su<rcrests  the  rattlesnake's  envenom'd  trail ; 

oo 

And  giant  bats,  with  flick'ring  pinions  near, 
Seem  restless  spirits  from  another  sphere. 
Despite  her  love,  despite  her  faith,  there  fell 
On  Ella's  heart  the  scene's  depressing  spell, 
And  Norman's  furrow'd  bosom  felt  again 
The  trenching  tide  of  thought's  habitual  pain. 
She  did  not  doubt — but  would  the  world  confide  I 
Must  she  its  altcr'd  look  of  scorn  abide, 
And,  ah  !  far  worse,  behold  the  blush  of  shame 
Suffuse  her  children's  cheek,  at  Norman's  name. 
That  name,  so  link'd  with  love's  entrancing  dream, 
That  name,  embalm'd  in  reason's  high  esteem, 
That  name,  round  which,  in  clustering  beauty  glow, 
The  flowers  of  joy,  the  balm  for  every  woe. — 
There  was  no  bud  of  promise — fruit  of  bliss — 
No  earthward  good — no  heavenward  happiness — 
Which  seein'd  a  boon  to  her,  if  'twere  not  also  his. — 


INDECISION.  73 

The  cup  of  pleasure  sparkled  to  the  hrim, 
When  pledg'd  in  sweet  companionship  with  him; 
And  joy  seem'd  only  joy,  when  Norman's  face, 
Illum'd  with  smiles,  inspir'd  the  unbought  grace, 
Which  sense  and  sentiment  alone  bestow, 
To  lift  the  heart  from  earth,  or  sky-tint  all  below. 

Still  darker  thoughts  career'd  through  Norman's  brain, 
Till  thought  itself  became  exhausting  pain; 
And  he,  like  holy  men  on  Olive's  steep, 
Who  vainly  strove  their  master's  watch  to  keep, 
In  sadness  slept,  for  grief  prolong'd  will  bring, 
When  too  intense,  a  feverish  slumbering. — 

But  she,  a  very  woman,  could  not  sleep, 

Wliile  none  were  left  o'er  him  a  watch  to  keep. 

Though  sore  fatigue  from  aidless  labour  press'd 

With  treble  force,  upon  her  care-worn  breast; 

And  sleep's  oblivious  antidote  might  bring 

Both  strength  to  toil,  and  balm  to  suffering, 

The  tireless  heart  of  love  repuls'd  repose, 

And,  as  the  mortal  sank,  the  angel  rose. 
The  moon  had  swung  her  lamp  in  middle  air, 

And  still  he  slumber'd  on  his  grassy  lair; 
7 


74  INDECISION. 

Her  downward  journey  through  the  western  sky, 
Still  mark'd  the  watcher's  solitary  eye. 
The  earthward  air  obscures  her  silver  light, 
Her  lurid  face  frowns  fiercely  on  the  night; 
And  prowling  things  instinctively  retire, 
As  if  affrighted  at  her  disc  of  fire. — 
So  huge,  so  crimson,  so  unearthly,  stood 
The  setting  moon  above  the  vast  dark  wood. — 
A  moment  more,  and  sombrous  silence  reigns 
On  waveless  forests,  and  on  slumbering  plains; 
The  very  winds  are  hush'd  in  dread  repose, 
And  terror  sleeps,  forgetful  of  his  foes. 

But,  hark  !  what  sounds  iuvade  the  silent  air, 
To  rouse  again  her  almost  sooth'd  despair ! 

"  That  wild  carousal !    God  of  mercy,  send 
Some  generous  heart,  my  husband  to  defend  ! 
Oh  !  shield  him,  shield  him."— But  the  heartfelt  prayer 
Was  roughly  check'd;  the  fiend  himself  was  there, 
To  laugh  to  scorn  her  love,  to  mock  her  bitter  tear. 

"  Where's  Norman  1    Prayest  thou  for  him  1    'Tis  well 
He  needs  more  prayers  than  thine,  as  I  can  tell ! 


INDECISION.  75 

Why  joins  he  not  our  revels "?    Is  he  proud, 

The  beggar  !    He  abhors  the  common  crowd  1 

We'll  make  him  humbler  yet !    Ho,  Norman,  up  ! 

Come,  sluggard,  to  the  bowl,  the  wassail-cup 

Is  charg'd  for  you ! — How  soundly  sleeps  the  knave, 

When  my  rough  hand  can't  rouse  him !    Well,  we'll  have 

His  fair  one  then  !    Come,  woman,  you  must  go, 

I  hear  my  drunken  messmates'  loud  halloo  !" 

"  Unhand  me,  wretch  !    Oh !  Norman,  Norman,  save, 
Oh  !  save  me,  husband,  from  this  felon-slave." 

"  A  felon-slave  !    Ah,  ha  !  he's  blown  us  then  ! 
The  villain's  blabb'd  the  secrets  of  the  den! 
What,  ho  !  my  men  !  there's  treason  !  we're  betray'd  ! 
Woman,  you'll  rue  the  day  that  you  were  made  ! 
Such  secrets  are  a  more  than  dangerous  trust: 
No  tales  are  told  by  caution-cover'd  dust ! 
What,  ho  ! — No  comers'?    How  the  fellows  bawl ! 
Their  ears  are  muffled  to  a  common  call ! 
I'll  rouse  them !" 

At  the  word,  his  whistle,  clear, 
Broke  the  dread  silence  of  the  distant  air. — 


76  INDECISION. 

He  listen'd  long.     No  kindred  sound  was  heard, 
Save  the  wild  note  of  some  benighted  bird: 
But  still  the  uproar  came,  of  whoop,  and  song, 
And  oath,  and  scream,  from  that  infernal  throng. 

"  No  answer  yet !    We'll  see  what  this  will  do  !" 
And  from  his  belt  the  signal-pistol  flew. — 
The  crimson  flash  display'd  his  face  of  steel, 
And  forest  echoes  magnified  the  peal. — 
But  still  in  vain !    Absorb'd  in  wine  and  strife, 
Their  orgie  deep  en' d,  even  to  the  knife. 

"  What !  must  I  act  alone  ?— 'Tis  best  alone  ! 
The  solitary  crime  will  not  be  known; 
And  Norman  sleeps  too  soundly  to  prevent 
His  wife's  destruction,  or  his  punishment. 
The  first,  the  traitor's  bitter  death  shall  feel, 
And  she  shall  see  his  heart's  blood  on  the  steel- 
Then  die  herself." 

As  thus  he  broach'd  his  scheme, 
His  mutter'd  words  excited  Norman's  dream, 
And  seem'd,  as  visions  often  do,  to  bind, 
More  firmly  to  its  sleep,  the  tortur'd  mind. 


INDECISION.  77 

He  thought  he  saw  his  helpless  partner  kneel 
In  vain,  to  deprecate  the  lifted  steel; 
He  seem'd  to  see  his  children,  too,  expire, 
Beneath  the  dagger  of  the  felon's  ire, 
And  wonder'd  why  his  limbs  in  vain  essay'd 
Their  rescue,  why  his  tongue  refus'd  its  aid 
To  sue  for  mercy,  though  his  aching  heart 
Seem'd  ready  from  his  throbbing  breast  to  start. 
Nay,  more  !  he  thought  he  felt  the  ruffian's  knife, 
Just  reeking  with  the  life-blood  of  his  wife, 
Just  hot  from  infant-slaughter,  touch  his  breast, 
"While  not  a  ringer  mov'd  the  blade  to  wrest. 

But  Ella's  prayer  of  faith,  when  hope  had  failed, 
Though  short  and  broken,  fearfully  prevail'd; 
For,  just  as  groping  for  the  mortal  part, 
The  fiend  had  really  found  poor  Norman's  heart, 
And  rais'd  his  arm  to  deal  the  deadly  blow, 
He  paus'd  to  listen  to  a  growl  so  low, 
That  only  practis'd  ears  like  his  could  hear — 
For  nothing  sharpens  sound  like  guilty  fear. 

"  Hist,  Hector !  pup !  where  are  you  1  down !  lie  still !" 

A  deeper  growl  made  every  fibre  thrill. 


78  INDECISION. 

A  sudden  rush — a  spring — the  panther's  cry, 
In  savage  grandeur,  echo'd  through  the  sky. 
The  kneeling  figure  caught  the  prowler's  view, 
And  on  his  prey  his  massive  form  he  threw. 

The  cry — the  crash — destroy'd  the  sleeper's  spell, 
And  up  he  sprang,  as  down  the  felon  fell. 

It  was  a  fearful  struggle.     Now  the  steel 
Made,  as  his  yell  express'd  the  monster  feel; 
And  now,  the  fasten'd  tooth-hold  rous'd  the  cry 
Of  that  hard  man's  reluctant  agony. 
Above,  below,  as  force  or  fate  prevail'd, 
Each,  in  his  turn,  his  struggling  foe  assail'd. 
The  grinding  fangs,  the  knife's  vindictive  crash, 
The  rending  claw,  the  eye's  envenom'd  flash, 
The  growl,  the  groan,  the  curse,  the  hissing  breath, 
The  long  wild  howl — and  all  was  still  as  death. 

At  length,  with  cautious  step,  and  searching  eye, 
Bewilder'd  Norman  slowly  ventur'd  nigh, 
Halloo'd,  but  vainly;  nearer  still  he  drew; 
Halloo'd  again. 

"  Ho,  Harden,  is  it  you  I 


INDECISION.  73 

I'll  try  my  foot;  but  yet  'tis  hardly  wise, 
A  wounded  panther  crouches  to  surprise." 
Again  he  call'd— and  then,  with  cautious  dread, 
ImpelPd  his  foot  against  the  panther's  head- 
It  mov'd  not,  for  the  fiery  beast  was  dead. 
More  cautiously  he  sought  for  signs  of  life 
In  Harden's  frame. — It  was  a  fearful  strife. — 
He  answer'd  not  the  call;  no  mutter'd  curse 
Follow'd  the  blow — it  was  his  last  reverse. 
The  stirring  interest  of  the  darkling  fray, 
Had  swept  from  Norman's  thoughts  his  dream  away; 
But  now  it  burst  revulsively  again, 
On  throbbing  bosom,  and  on  burning  brain. 
His  children,  in  their  grandsire's  distant  trust, 
Could  not  have  felt  the  ruffian's  deadly  thrust; 
But  his  dear  wTife,  who  never  left  his  side, 
In  weal  or  woe,  what  evil  could  betide  ! 
He  surely  heard,  for  aid,  her  plaintive  cry, 
And  that  relentless  monster's  stern  reply. 
Perplex'd,  his  baffled  eyes  perus'd  the  ground, 
As  if  her  prostrate  form  might  there  be  found; 


81  INDECISION. 

Then  darkly  scamvd  the  overhanging  air, 
As  if  he  sought  her  angel-spirit  there. 

In  vain  he  piere'd  the  solitary  shade, 
As  slowly  from  the  scene  of  death  he  stray'd; 
But  paus'd,  as  burst  upon  his  startled  eye, 
In  darkling  outline,  seen  against  the  sky, 
A  form  immoveable.     Its  long  loose  hair 
Wav'd  in  the  eddies  of  the  waking  air; 
With  arms  extended  and  with  forward  head, 
It  aim'd  a  silent  rifle  at  the  dead. 
E'en  Norman's  fearless  tide  of  life  ran  chill, 
It  stood,  so  like  a  statue,  mute  and  still, 
As  if  intent,  Apollo-like,  to  know, 
How  sped  the  shaft,  that  flew  to  pierce  the  foe. 

"There  are  no  spectres  surely  1     Can  it  be 
Another  dream  1—  I'll  solve  this  mystery  !" 

He  nearer  drew;  but  still  the  mystic  shade, 
The  same  dark,  moveless,  sky-drawn  image  made. 
He  haiPd  it  gently  then.     No  answer  came; 
But  there  it  stood  immoveably  the  same. 
He  call'd  aloud,  and  started  at  his  cry, 
For  only  darkling  echo  made  reply. 


INDECISION.  81 

His  nerves  could  bear  no  more.     He  would  have  fled, 
But  like  a  snake-charm'd  bird,  his  very  dread. 
Entic'd  him  nearer;  till,  at  length,  he  laid, 
Despite  himself,  his  hand  upon  the  shade. 
It  gave  a  piercing  shriek,  the  rifle  peal'd, 
And  Ella's  flash-illumin'd  face  reveal'd. 
She  fell,  entranc'd,  into  his  trembling  arms, 
And  rais'd  in  Norman's  bosom  new  alarms. 

"My  Ella,  dearest  Ella!  speak  to  me! 
One  word,  one  word,  'Twere  worth  a  world,  from  thee !" 

Though  long  the  burden'd  heart's  pulsations  fail'd, 
Assiduous  care  and  time  at  length  prevail'd. 
He  watch'd  the  guggling  breath,  the  quivering  breast, 
The  fearful  sob,  the  yet  more  fearful  rest. 
Sigh  follow'd  sigh;  one  moan  impelPd  another; 
'Till  came  at  last  a  child-like  cry,  "  my  mother !" 

It  was  too  much  to  bear;  and  Norman  wept, 
When  to  his  breast  the  unconscious  Ella  crept, 
Like  nestling  to  the  sheltering  wing  of  love, 
When  floods  the  rain  upon  the  parent  dove. 
"My  mother!"  WThat  a  chain  of  blissful  thought 
Is  in  that  home-endearing  sentence  wrought ! 


87  INDECISION. 

Is  there  on  earth  a  melody  so  dear, 

As  that  sweet  sound  to  gentle  childhood's  ear"? 

My  mother  soothes  my  grief,  refines  my  bliss, 

And  asks  but  what  I  love  to  give — a  kiss. 

Aye,  though  the  truant  heart  of  manhood  stray, 

To  other  charms  and  other  friends  away; 

The  memory  of  a  mother's  love,  at  last, 

Returns,  like  bread  on  Nile's  rich  waters  cast, 

To  prove  the  solace  of  the  stricken  heart, 

When  sorrows  come,  and  hope's  gay  dreams  depart. 

There's  not  a  withered  leaf  that  does  not  yield 

Undying  odours,  when  thro'  childhood's  field 

Of  sunny  days  and  ever  blooming  sweets, 

To  hail  a  mother's  smile  the  cloudless  memory  fleets 

The  day,  long  wish'd  for,  beam'd  on  Ella's  face, 
And  on  the  pallid  cheek  the  eye  could  trace, 
The  tinting  tide  of  life's  returning  stream; 
Though  still  her  shatter'd  mind  pursued  its  dream. 
"Mother,  dear  mother!"  and  she  sweetly  smil'd, 
As  if  again  a  mother's  playful  child. 
"  Mother,  dear  mother,  bend  your  gentle  brow 
A  little  lower,  I  would  kiss  it  now. 


INDECISION.  83 

Nay  !  do  not  shrink  !  it  is  a  daughter's  kiss  ! 

I  am  no  Judas  !     This  and  this  and  this  ! 

Now  for  the  flowers !     How  well  that  head  will  show, 

When  crimson  roses  flush  upon  its  snow." 

She  wildly  woke  and  kiss'd  his  ghastly  cheek, 

And  bounded  off,  the  promis'd  buds  to  seek, 

While  horror-stricken  Norman  could  not  rise, — 

He  saw  the  flash  of  madness  in  her  eyes, 

And  anxiously  observ'd  her  as  she  fled, 

Straight  to  the  spot  where  lay  the  bloody  dead; 

Unconscious  of  their  presence,  till  her  foot 

Was  placed,  as  if  to  spring  across  the  brute. 

She  stood  spell-bound  by  Harden's  stony  face, 

Where  every  deadly  passion  kept  its  place; 

Not  living  signals  floating,  each  alone, 

Expression  changing  with  the  varied  tone 

Of  that  bad  mind;  but  like  the  painted  leaves, 

Which  to  the  earth  the  fading  forest  heaves, 

The  passions  mingled,  not  confounded  lie, 

Rage  in  the  frown,  and  malice  in  the  eye; 

Contempt  for  goodness,  in  the  reckless  sneer, 

And  hatred  of  whatever  man  holds  dear, 


84  INDECISION. 

ThronVl  on  the  curling  lip,  while  fiercely  shown, 

The  serried  teeth  exprcss'd  revenge  alone; 

And  strangely  over  all,  the  marble  smile 

Was  veil-like  cast,  by  his  unceasing  guile. 

The  knife,  hilt-deep,  obey'd  his  stiffen' d  clasp, 

The  monster's  tongue  yet  wrinkled  in  his  grasp: 

His  knees  were  forc'd  against  the  dinted  chest, 

His  wary  feet,  the  hinder  claws  represt; 

And  in  his  mouth  remained  the  gory  wreck 

Of  skin  and  hair  extorted  from  the  neck. 

His  reckless  courage  failed  him  not  in  death, 

And  self-possession  clos'd  with  closing  breath. 

The  panther's  blood  bedew'd  his  clammy  face, 

The  panther's  arms  bestow'd  the  last  embrace; 

He  died,  as  he  had  liv'd,  a  brutal  "brave," 

With  none  to  close  his  eyes,  with  none  to  mark  his  grave. 

"While  Ella,  terror-stricken,  scann'd  the  face, 
In  whose  stern  features  madness'  self  might  trace 
The  harderi'd  marks  of  passion,  now  no  more, 
As  lavas  frown.,  where  mountains  flam'd  of  yore; 
Across  her  face,  confus'd  emotions  rush, 
Now  terror's  chill  is  there,  now  triumph's  flush, 


INDECISION.  85 

As  foamlcss  waves  contrasted  shadows  take 
From  sunset-skies,  when  stirs  the  breezy  lake. 
Her  tender  frame  the  strife  could  illy*  brook, 
And  painful  languor  grew  in  every  look ; 
Until  the  calm  of  mere  exhaustion  cast 
A  quietness  across  her  face  at  last ; 
And  feebly  mirror'd  in  her  countenance, 
Was  seen  again  the  spirit's  conscious  glance. 
The  very  waves  that  wreck'd  his  bark  before, 
May  cast  the  struggling  seaman  to  the  shore; 
And  passion's  sudden  tempests,  tho'  they  blind 
The  shatter' d  reason,  oft  restore  the  mind. — 

My  mother!  Gone! — Alone]  what  am  I1? — Where] 
It  was  a  dreadful  dream  !     Ha !  Harden  there ! 
And  dead !     A  panther  too !     Oh,  Norman,  why 
Desert  me  thus,  in  such  an  agony] 
Perchance  too,  he  is  dead! — I'll  know  the  worst; 
On  such  a  scene  'twere  well  that  cloud  should  burst : 

*  This  is  called  an  Americanism,  but  like  many  others  is  but 
an  adherence  to  good  old  English  examples — 

"But  when  she  saw  her  reason  illy  spent." 

DRYUEN'S  JENEID,  vii,  524. 

8 


8G  INDECISION. 

I'll  find  thee  yet — though  dead,  'twill  comfort  be, 
My  broken-hearted  love,  to  gaze  on  thee, 
And  lay  my  aching  head  upon  thy  breast, 
And  pillow'd  coldly  there,  subside  to  rest. 
I  feel,  when  thou  art  gone,  like  orphan-dove 
When  dies,  by  murderous  gun,  the  parent-love, 
And  leaves  the  nest  to  coldness,  want  and  dread. 
Oh,  desolate  indeed,  if  thou,  if  thou  art  dead!" 

Though  Norman  heard  the  harrowing  appeal, 
And  every  sentence  seem'd  a  barb  of  steel, 
He  feared  to  speak,  lest  reason,  scarce  restor'd, 
Might  flutter  back  to  madness,  at  a  word : 
But  as  she  turn'd  her  searching  eye  around, 
It  flash'd  upon  him,  while  the  cry,  "found  !  found  !" 
Rang  thro'  the  air. 

"  My  love,  my  life,  my  own ! 
Oh,  God  of  mercy  !  I  am  not  alone  ! — 
His  face  is  cold,  his  eye  is  dim,  but  yet 
His  heart  is  throbbing,  and  his  cheek  is  wet 
With  tears  for  me.     I  thought  my  lot  before 
Was  hard,  though  thou  wert  near ;  but  now,  no  more 


INDECISION.  87 

My  grateful  soul  repines  :  since  Norman  still 
Remains  for  me,  I  fear  no  other  ill. 
Aye,  like  the  child  who  thinks  the  modest  ray 
Of  night's  fair  queen  unborrow'd  from  the  day, 
I  knew  not  till  I  deem'd  my  husband  gone, 
How  much  of  bliss  I  owed  to  him  alone. — 
But  come,  my  love,  escape  this  scene,  for  here 
There's  nought  to  hope,  and  far  too  much  to  fear!'' 

Thus  saying,  on  she  led,  until  they  drew 
Near  to  the  house,  where  lay  the  sleeping  crew, 
Whom  sheer  excess  had  silenc'd — crimson  faces 
Yet  glow'd  with  apoplexy's  threat'ning  traces, 
And  some  look'd  pale,  as  if  the  frighten'd  blood 
Had  pour'd  upon  the  heart  its  total  flood. 
The  earth  and  shatter'd  porch  were  cover'd  o'er 
With  men  and  bottles,  pistols,  dirks  and  gore. 

Spirit  of  Drunkenness,  it  was  thy  feast, 
That,  Circe-like,  transform'd  the  man  to  beast, 
To  sport  for  beasts.     Upon  thy  blasting  breath, 
Thy  willing  victim  hastes  to  hideous  death. 
At  first,  on  pleasure's  glossy  wings  he  flies 
Through  dewy  glades  beneath  unclouded  skies ; 


83  INDECISION. 

Health  brac'd  to  madness,  nerves  the  heart  for  glee, 

And  rainbows  flash  the  air,  and  halcyons  gem  the  sea. 

A  glittering  throng,  companions  of  the  way, 

Love,  Music,  Friendship,  round  the  doom'd  one  play : 

Enraptur'd  Hope,  exalted  Fancy  gltnv, 

With  colours  borrow'd  from  the  airy  bow : 

Unwelcome  Prudence,  drench'd  in  Passion's  spring, 

In  vain  essays  for  flight  her  heavy  wing : 

Lo!  frowning  Conscience,  next,  unheeded  falls; 

For  succour,  vainly,  flagging  Honour  calls  : 

Love  shrinks  from  Jealousy's  malignant  eyes, 

And  Hate,  when  Friendship  calls  for  help,  replies. 

The  faery  forms  of  gentle  Nature  gone, 

The  lost  one  flies  with  Hell's  fierce  brood  alone  : 

Grim  Vengeance,  flushing  Anger,  watchful  Hate, 

Envy  and  Malice  on  his  progress  wait : 

Want,  sickness,  cruelty  and  Crime  are  there, 

And  selfish  Indolence,  and  wild  Despair, 

Who  wreathes  in  livid  folds  his  wasted  frame, 

And  breathes  into  his  heart  a  quenchless  flame. 

In  vain,  in  vain,  he  turns  his  backward  view 

To  fields  of  lio-ht  and  balm  from  which  he  flew  : 


INDECISION.  89 

The  pestilential  gale  unnerves  his  force, 

And  gathers  strength  along  its  baneful  course. 

Amidst  the  growing  gloom,  by  fits,  appear, 

In  mystic  light,  sweet  faces,  once  how  dear ! 

The  broken  hearted  wife,  in  death's  pale  dress, 

To  jeering  fiends  proclaims  unearn'd  distress  : 

The  poor,  neglected  babe,  though  glazed  its  eye, 

Still  points  to  hungry  lips,  and  sends  a  wailing  cry. 

On  terror's  icy  wings  he  turns  to  flee ; 

But  ah  !  that  form,  upon  the  felon's  tree, 

With  dark  and  bloated  face,  and  quivering  frame  ! 

It  is  his  son — to  death  and  public  sharne 

A  sacrifice  !     It  gibbers  out,  "  the  bowl ! ! 

I  trod  thy  footsteps,  be  it  on  thy  soul !" 

The  father  turns  again  to  flee,  but  Hate 

Exulting  cries,  "  too  late  !  too  late  !  too  late  ! 

Imperishable  mind  might  strength  renew, 

But  poison'd  draughts  have  shed  their  deadly  dew 

On  heart  and  brain;  the  wither'd  carcase  lies 

A  load  upon  the  spirit,  and it  dies !" 


90  INDECISION. 


PART  FOURTH. 

THERE  was  a  conscious  flush  in  Norman's  face, 
At  such  a  wreck  of  tumult  and  disgrace; 
But,  as  he  lifted  up  his  searching  eye, 
To  read  his  wife's,  with  jealous  scrutiny, 
He  almost  started  at  the  open  look, 
Where  lurk'd  reproach  in  not  a  single  nook. 
Affectionate  suspicion,  eagle-ey'd, 
No  shadow  of  a  doubting  heart  espied. 
There,  sat  enthron'd  the  love  that  could  not  die — 
The  faith  that  saw,  behind  the  clouds,  the  sky, 
Still  beautifully  blue,  still  richly  dight 
With  stars,  that  borrow'd  from  the  soul  the  light 
They  secm'd  to  shed ;  as  gems  reflect  the  ray 
With  added  lustre,  back  upon  the  day. 

The  scatter'd  weapons,  gather'd  up  in  haste, 
With  prudent  care  into  the  well  were  cast; 


INDECISION.  91 

The  steeds  were  saddled  and  the  spur  applied, 
With  anxious  impulse,  to  the'courser's  side, 
And  home  and  hazard  soon  were  lost  to  view, 
As  through  the  shrubless  woods  the  riders  flew. 

At  length  the  forests  wave  behind,  and  near 
The  chimneys  of  a  long,  low  house  appear  : 
It  was  her  father's  hospitable  dome, 
It  was  of  childhood's  sunny  hours  the  home ; 
Her  children's  shelter,  too,  and  yet  with  fear 
Her  heart  approach'd  to  what  it  held  so  dear. 
The  clouds  that  scarce,  wThen  distant,  dim  the  sky, 
Obscure  the  universal  arch  when  nigh  ; 
And  she,  who  urg'd  the  courser's  utmost  speed, 
So  fondly  anxious  with  her  sire  to  plead, 
While  forests  wav'd  between,  no  sooner  found 
Herself  within  her  parent's  well  known  ground, 
Than  courage  wither'd,  and  the  tighten'd  rein 
Betray'd  the  lapses  of  her  hope  again. 
The  gallop  slacken'd  to  a  trot,  a  pace, 
A  walk,  a  sudden  pause ;  the  speaking  face 
Display'd  successively,  doubt,  fear,  despair; 
The  very  wormwood  of  the  heart  was  there. 


92  INDECISION. 

'Twas  but  an  instant  there— away,  away, 
With  flashing  eye  and  flashing  cheek  she  flies ; 

The  mother's  transport  bore  a  moment's  sway, 
A  moment  snatch'd  by  Time  from  Paradise. 

The  lengthen'd  table  on  the  shaded  lawn 
Was  roughly  set,  as  day  began  to  dawn, 
And  every  thing  bespoke  a  rural  fete, 
Except  the  air  solicitous,  that  sate 
On  busy  faces.     Even  the  careless  slave, 
So  joyous  ever,  thoughtful  now  and  grave, 
Confess'd  hereditary  love,  in  grief, 
Which,  for  his  own  mishap,  had  been  more  brief. 
He  seem'd,  whilst  sharing  in  his  master's  woe, 
To  feel  less  child-like  fortune's  angry  blow; 
As  if  the  love,  that  to  his  bosom  flew 
From  cultur'd  sources,  brought  its  venom  too. 
E'er  since,  in  Eden,  knowledge  from  the  tree 
Of  fruit  forbidden  curs'd  humanity, 
Eve's  children  feel  the  weight  of  curious  thought, 
To  human  things,  with  mortal  sorrow  fraught. 
Aye,  knowledge  borrows  from  its  lofty  source, 
For  earthly  things  a  superhuman  force, 


INDECISION.  93 

Which,  like  the  lightning-  on  its  midnight  path, 
But  brightens  most  the  victims  of  its  wrath. 

Who  mark'd  the  rugged  men  who  gather'd  there, 
Might  think  they  came  their  conquests  to  compare. 
The  tripping  youth,  with  light  short  rifle,  bore 
The  scalps  of  squirrels,  bullet-stamp'd  before : 
The  bending  sire,  whose  head  was  white  with  years, 
With  antlers  at  his  saddle-bow  appears  : 
One  flings  a  reeking  bear-skin  o'er  a  bush ; 
Another  decks  his  cap  with  reynard's  brush  ; 
Opossums,  pheasants,  quails,  are  strew'd  around ; 
Raccoons,  hawks,  eagles,  turkeys  stain  the  ground : 
Each  brought  some  offering  from  the  earth  or  air, 
To  prove  his  skill,  or  swell  the  festive  fare. 

Incongruously  wild  in  every  part, 
Their  garb  might  well  defy  descriptive  art ; 
For  linsy-woolsy,  skins,  and  half-made  leather, 
As  whim  or  use  directed,  grouped  together, 
Defied  all  fashion,  and  kept  out  all  weather. 
And  yet,  who  mark'd  the  air  of  perfect  ease, 
The  noble  features,  form'd  to  strike  and  please, 


94  INDECISION. 

Might  fancy  this  a  motley  masquerade, 
Where  high  bred  men  the  characters  displayed. 

The  salutations  o'er,  the  question  rose, 
"  Who  may  the  cause  of  meeting  here  disclose  ? 
Have  wolves,  or  hears,  or  foxes  spoil'd  the  folds; 
Do  panthers  foray  from  their  rocky  holds; 
Does  war-paint  coat  the  Indian's  dusky  hide ; 
Do  prowling  bands  across  the  frontier  glide; 
Is  danger  near,  or  are  we  call'd  to  see 
The  marriage  rite,  or  funeral  obsequyT" 

The  sire  of  Ella  answer'd.     Manly  sense 
Was  grac'd,  despite  his  years,  with  eloquence, 
As  common  to  the  people  and  the  time, 
As  if  the  offspring  of  the  glorious  clime, 
And  yet  more  glorious  nature.     Lofty  thought, 
Like  eaglet  from  its  sun-bright  aerie  brought, 
Soar'd  up,  as  if  its  native  home  it  sought ; 
And  language,  fluent  as  the  father-stream, 
And  varied  as  the  Autumn's  gorgeous  gleam, 
Echoed  from  heart  to  heart,  as  woods  to  wToods 
Repeat  the  thunder-crash  in  startled  solitudes. 


INDECISION.  95 

At  first  he  spoke  of  olden  time,  when  there, 
They  fought  the  Indian,  and  subdued  the  bear; 
And,  in  the  log-built  temple,  knelt  to  pray, 
While  rifles,  loaded  for  the  sudden  fray, 
The  door-way  cluster'd  ;  when  the  ploughman's  eye 
Now  mark'd  the  furrow,  now  the  coppice  nio-h, 
For  profit  or  for  foes ;  and  children,  taught 
The  early  use  of  weapons,  bravely  fought, 
To  save  a  mother's  home.     Such  dangers  drew 
Near  to  each  other's  hearts  the  faithful  few, 
Who  swept  before  the  axe  the  fruitless  gloom 
Of  forest  shadows,  and  enrich'd  with  bloom 
Of  field  and  garden,  that  enchanting  land, 
Where  gleams  no  more  at  night  the  prowling  Indian's 

brand. 

He  trac'd  the  progress  of  the  "  settlement," 
From  when  he  pitch'd  amid  the  woods  his  tent— 
And  mark'd  the  trees,  which  stand  aloof  to  show 
The  faithful  record  of  the  axe's  blow, 
Unerring  landmarks— to  the  present  hour, 
Of  wealth  and  safety,  happiness  and  power. 


96  INDECISION. 

He  sought  occasion,  as  events  arose 

Along  his  tale,  the  virtues  to  disclose 

Of  old  and  young,  forgetting  not  the  brave, 

The  wise  and  good,  whom  valour  could  not  save, 

Nor  conduct  rescue  from  an  early  grave. 

The  various  peril  of  the  infant  state 

Gave  scope  some  wondrous  action  to  relate, 

Of  all  who  listen'd.     Each  had  had  his  share 

Of  public  service,  or  in  peace,  or  war, 

And  most  had  borne  an  office,  all  could  show  a  scar. 

Though  much  the  patriarch  himself  had  serv'd 

The  common  cause,  on  that  alone  reserv'd, 

He  scarcely  glanc'd,  but  did  not  fail  to  tell 

How  often  Norman  hush'd  the  fearful  yell 

Of  savage  foes,  and  turn'd  the  deadly  flood 

Of  desolation  back  upon  the  wood : 

How  oft  he  track'd,  with  keen,  unerring  ken, 

The  tender  infant  to  the  forest-den, 

And  plack'd  it  from  the  red  man's  iron  hands, 

"When  fierce  tormentors  heap'd  the  burning  brands ; 

And  spite  of  thronging  foes  and  whistling  lead, 

And  blood  from  recent  wounds  profusely  shed, 


INDECISION.  97 

Eluding1  native  skill  and  tireless  hate, 
He  fainted — only  at  the  white  man's  gate, 
Where,  pale  with  hope  deferred,  the  weeping1  mother  sate. 
The  speaker  barely  hinted  many  a  deed 
Of  well-tim'd  kindness  in  the  hour  of  need, 
Lest  envy,  wak'd  by  wounded  pride,  should  start 
From  slumber,  and  possess  the  hearer's  heart. 
He  rather  dwelt  on  good  received,  not  given; 
How  each  for  Norman's  growing  fame  had  striven ; 
And  how,  until  his  late  reverses,  he 
Disparag'd  not  their  tried  sagacity. 
He  drew  the  picture  of  his  palmy  state, 
The  lot  that  seem'd  beyond  the  reach  of  fate, 
Built  on  the  people's  love,  an  honest  heart, 
And  wisdom,  destitute  of  selfish  art ; 
Health,  time,  and  treasure,  for  the  public  use, 
And  arduous  office,  long  without  abuse. 
He  then  portray'd  his  present  desolation, 
The  loss  of  wealth,  respect,  and  friends,  and  station, 
And  wonder'd  what  could  cause  the  fearful  fall 
Of  one  so  much,  so  long  esteem'd  by  all. 
9 


98  INDECISION. 

He  saw  around  him  men  both  good  and  wise, 

Who  look'd  not  out  with  inconsiderate  eyes ; 

Who,  train'd  by  trials,  taught  by  hopes  deceiv'd, 

In  Norman's  often  tested  truth  believ'd, 

And  yd  believed;  for  while  his  fortune,  thrown 

To  worthless  men,  had  been  his  loss  alone, 

He  yet,  with  signs  of  deep  disgust,  withdrew 

From  other  converse  with  the  hateful  crew. 

A  dread  delusion  only  could  explain 

The  sudden  drag  of  fate's  disastrous  chain, 

And  that  delusion  was — 

"  My  daughter,  tell," 

He  cried,  "  to  those  good  neighbors  what  befel 
Last  night,  and  how  the  hoarded  secret,  wrung 
By  you  from  Norman's  too  reluctant  tongue, 
Demands  our  sympathy,  and  not  our  blame  ; 
Come,  daughter,  vindicate  a  husband's  fame!" 

The  simple,  eloquent,  affecting  tale, 
In  trembling  beauty's  language,  did  not  foil 
To  touch  most  deeply,  hearts,  whose  cords  of  love, 
Attemper'd  by  the  Master-hand  above, 


INDECISION.  99 

Were  yet  responsive;  for  the  world  had  not 

Its  brood  of  heartless  passions  gather'd  to  the  spot. 

'Twas  balm  to  Ella's  bosom;  as  she  heard 
From  each  successively,  a  soothing  word ; 
And  hope,  who  long-  had  left  invading-  care 
To  plough  his  furrows  o'er  her  forehead  fair, 
Return'd  to  plant  her  own  sweet  flowrets  there. 

There  was  but  one,  amidst  the  scene  of  bliss, 
Accomplished  for  a  darker  theme  than  this ; 
And  he  was  Norman's  rival,  not  in  arms, 
Or  unpaid  service ;  absent  in  alarms, 
But  ever  present  in  the  civil  crowd, 
A  noisy  demagogue,  the  loudest  of  the  loud. 
Like  waves,  that  rise  above  the  level  sea 
13y  sinking  on  each  side  a  cavity, 
His  art  ascendant  was  detraction's  skill, 
That  darken'd  virtue  to  emblazon  ill. 
Cold,  callous,  cunning,  unbelov'd  by  any, 
His  active  venom  made  him  fear'd  by  many. 
They  could  repulse  the  Indian,  track  the  bear, 
The  trembling  victim  from  the  panther  tear ; 


100  INDECISION. 

But  where's  the  barrier  to  the  viewless  breeze, 
That  wafts  its  poison  from  the  vine-girt  trees'?  * 
His  eye  was  sunken :  o'er  his  narrow  brow 
His  hair  descended,  coarse  and  black  and  low ; 
His  freckled  cheeks,  untinted  by  the  rose, 
Seem'd  scarcely  sever'd  by  his  thread-like  nose ; 
His  lipless  mouth,  a  long  and  narrow  line, 
To  cheek  or  chin  did  not  a  curve  incline ; 
Expression's  organs,  tutor'd  to  obey, 
Had  ceased  to  kindle  on  his  face  of  clay : 
Condens'd  within  his  heart  his  muzzled  passions  lay. 
Though  quick  aversion  started  at  his  mien, 
They  look'd  again,  who  once  his  face  had  seen ; 
But  'twas  the  glance  of  circumspective  care, 
Like  his  who  treads  the  noiseless  serpent's  lair. 
He  car'd  not  for  affection;  fear  could  move 
The  abject  to  his  will,  as  well  as  love ; 
And  nature  taught  him  the  terrific  art 
To  charm,  by  snake-like  fear,  the  feeble  heart. 

*  The  Rhus  toxicodemlron  is  so  poisonous  to  some  persons 
as  to  affect  them  injuriously  whenever  they  approach  it  to  lee 
ward. 


INDECISION.  101 

He  mov'd  not,  till,  by  fervid  acclamation, 
The  crowd  resolv'd  to  render  back  his  station 
To  prostrate  Norman ;  then  he  slowly  rose, 
And  begg'd  for  leave  his  reasons  to  disclose, 
"  Why  he  must  from  his  wiser  friends  dissent, 
And  mar  an  unity  so  kindly  meant : 
Their  noble  natures  had  been  led  astray 
By  beauty,  tears,  and  masterly  display  : 
They  could  not  else  the  public  good  betray ! 
What  convict  ever  thinks  his  sentence  just; 
And  who,  to  such  defence,  can  wisely  trust] 
What  proofs  are  offer'd  for  this  sudden  pleaT 
His  tale  believ'd,  might  prove  insanity 
In  those  who  trust  it  only  '.—Here  confcss'd, 
A  legal  felon  ;  who  will  vouch  the  rest  1 
His  recent  conduct,  too— is  that  so  pure, 
That  we  must  Norman's  rule  again  endure ! 
What!  friends  deceived;  official  justice  gone; 
A  horde  of  felons  to  our  precincts  drawn, 
A  fortune  wasted,  children  left  to  be 
The  prey  of  want,  or  care  of  charity  : 
9* 


102  INDECISION. 

Are  these  the  props  on  which  he  rests  his  claim 
To  brighten'd  fortunes  and  a  rescued  name? 
Methinks  I  hear  you  cry,  for  shame!  for  shame!" 

'Twas  sad  to  see  the  subtle  venom  dart 
From  him  who  spoke,  to  many  a  better  heart; 
And  sadder  still  to  scan  the  wither'd  look, 
As  startled  hope  poor  Ella's  face  forsook : 
Nor  that,  nor  tears,  nor  mute  appeals  abate 
The  cool,  collected  speaker's  settled  hate. 
He  felt  the  weight  of  Norman's  worth  too  long-, 
To  pardon  contrast  treasur'd  as  a  wrong-. 
With  skill  minute  he  urg'd  his  varied  pleas 
To  various  tempers  and  to  all  degrees : 
The  sparks  of  envy  of  forgotten  days 
Were  all  unash'd  and  blown  into  a  blaze  ; 
Unnotic'd  passages  of  other  times, 
To  jealous  self  love  magnified  to  crimes, 
Unlock'd  the  springs  of  bitterness  that  lie 
Too  near  the  wells  of  human  sympathy ; 
And  rum  seem'd  complete ;  when,  with  a  start, 
The  speaker  paus'd ;  his  hand  is  on  his  heart ; 


INDECISION.  103 

His  pallid  cheek  is  yet  more  deadly  pale, 
As  if  the  springs  of  life  began  to  fail. 
A  stranger  is  before  him  ;  not  in  guise, 
Or  posture  to  explain  that  wild  surprise ; 
But,  simply  clad  in  bison  robes,  he  stood 
Aloof,  as  if  unwilling  to  intrude ; 
And  yet,  though  distant,  with  a  practis'd  ear, 
And  deep  attention,  lean'd  as  if  to  hear. 

The  sudden  pause,  the  wild  and  ashy  face, 
The  searching  eye  thus  fasten'd  on  the  place 
Where  stood  the  hunter,  drew  all  other  eyes, 
And  each  partook  the  orator's  surprise. 

"  Who  comes  ?    What  cause  for  such  unearthly  dread  ? 
He  seems  no  apparition  from  the  dead ! 
Health  sparkles  in  his  ruddy  cheek;  that  eye 
Its  blue  might  borrow  from  the  purest  sky, 
But  sure  that  frame  has  never  seen  decay, 
And  hostile  spirits  dare  not  thus  the  day  2" 

The  comer,  as  they  question'd,  drew  more  near, 
While,  at  each  step,  a  deeper  shade  of  fear 
The  trembler's  visage  marr'd.     The  stranger  took 
His  rifle  from  its  sling,  and  roughly  shook 


104  INDECISION. 

The  heart-struck  caitiff;  but  his  death-like  trance 
Absorb'd  all  feeling,  and,  with  moveless  glance, 
He  gaz'd  upon  the  vacant  spot,  where  first 
The  prairie-hunter  on  his  vision  burst. 
His  aimless  hand,  in  tremulous  distress, 
Seem'd  searching  through  the  foldings  of  his  dress ; 
And  they  who  knew  him,  deem'd  the  hardy  stranger 
Too  near  his  knife,  and  caution'd  him  of  danger. 
He  calmly  smil'd. 

"  The  weapon  he  shall  show 
Must  give  himself,"  he  said,  "a  fatal  blow. 

Come,  sir!  the  paper!" 

"Paper]" 

"Aye,  the  one 

We  spoke  of  last,  when  set  the  evening  sun. 

Your  darkling  aim,  alas,  was  but  too  true ; 

But  /am  living,  whom  you  thought  you  slew." 

"  Not  dead!  not  dead! — I  saw  you  strike  the  floor! 

I  heard  them  say  the  pulse  of  life  was  o'er ! 

No  spirit  this]" — and  then  a  thoughtful  smile 

Announc'd  the  advent  of  his  usual  guile. 


INDECISION.  105 

His  superstitious  fear  was  gone,  and  he 

Appear'd  to  find  his  equanimity ; 

And  strove  again  to  speak  of  that  which  late 

Had  been  the  topic  of  the  first  debate ; 

But  inconsiderate  eyes  might  plainly  see 

His  matter  lack'd  its  keen  congruity ; 

As  if  his  absent  spirit  were  intent 

On  something  foreign  to  the  words  he  sent. 

The  awkward  peroration  o'er,  he  stood 
A  moment  silent,  in  a  thoughtful  mood, 
And  then  retreated,  backwards,  to  the  wood. 
The  stranger  follow'd  closely,  foot  by  foot, 
With  rifle  pois'd,  as  if  about  to  shoot 
The  shrinking  wretch,  whose  supplicating  air, 
And  humble  gesture  urg'd  him  to  forbear. 
At  length  they  reach'd  the  trees,  and  there,  behind 
Their  cluster'd  shelter,  with  the  speed  of  wind, 
The  slender  figure  glided  from  the  view, 
And  foil'd  a  marksman  seldom  found  untrue. 

The  huntsman's  rifle  blaz'd. — From  out  the  busbes, 
With  gleaming  knife,  the  unhurt  foeman  rushes 


106  INDECISION. 

Upon  his  victim,  now  unarm'd,  and  all 

Prepare  to  see  the  baffled  stranger  fall ; 

For  well  the  ire-directed  skill  they  knew 

Of  him  who  seldom  bloodless  weapon  drew. 

Why  falls  the  dagger  from  his  quivering  grasp  ! 

In  love  he  seems  the  hunter's  form  to  clasp  ! 

He  reels,  he  faints,  he  cries  for  help  ;  his  vest 

Is  stain'd  with  gore— the  blood-gush  from  his  breast, 

And  Norman's  smoking  rifle  tell  the  rest. 

The  eye  could  scarce  the  fatal  sequence  trace, 
Ere,  o'er  the  dying  man,  in  warm  embrace, 
The  friends  were  lock'd.— The  ball  of  Norman  came 
To  save  his  prairie-friend,  and  clear  his  fame. 

To  search  the  dying  man  the  stranger  flew, 
And  from  his  bleeding  vest  a  paper  drew, 
Deep  hidden  there—"  These  lines,"  he  cried,  "declare 
The  name  of  Norman  crimeless,  honest,  fair : 
They  come  from  hands  who  knew  bis  hapless  tale, 
And  must  o'er  any  candid  doubt  prevail. 

But  lest  there  should  a  lurking  spot  remain, 
The  rescued  honour  of  my  friend  to  stain, 


INDECISION. 

Let  me  recount  my  knowledge  of  his  lot, 
And  how  of  late,  revisiting-  the  spot 
Where  last  we  parted,  I  was  haply  led 
To  trace  the  course  of  him  I  mourn'd  as  dead. 
Nay,  more;  I  learn'd  from  him  he  justly  slew, 
This  fallen  wretch,  that  Norman  dwelt  with  you. 
I  heard  from  him  of  high  and  palmy  state; 
Of  fortune  gone,  of  mansion  desolate; 
And  plac'd  this  precious  paper  in  his  trust ; 
And  he  to  Norman  promis'd  to  be  just. 
A  lurking  fear  lest  he,  to  whom  I  gave 
The  proofs  of  honour,  might  not  wish  to  save, 
Induc'd  me  thither. — God,  who  guides  the  wrath 
Of  man  to  praise  him,  led  my  devious  path, 
Last  night,  across  this  traitor's  way,  who  said 
My  words  were  balm  to  Norman  :  he  was  dead, 
And  died  a  happier  man  because  he  knew 
His  fame  was  rescued,  and  his  friend  was  true. 
Deluded  thus,  I  sought  a  forest-shed, 
But  scarce  had  cast  me  on  my  bison-bed, 
When  rang  the  woods,  and,  with  a  sudden  yell, 
My  bleeding  Indian  guide  upon  me  fell. 


108  INDECISION. 

His  hairy  dress,  so  like  my  own,  dcceiv'd 
The  skulking  marksman,  and  he  still  heliev'd 
Me  slain,  and  therefore  show'd  such  marks  of  dread 
At  sight  of  one  he  deem'd  among  the  dead." 

The  feast  was  o'er,  the  smiling  friends  were  gone, 
And  Ella,  with  her  hushand,  sat  alone. 
A  heaming  happiness  illum'd  her  face, 
As,  folding  Norman  in  her  proud  embrace, 
She  poured  the  fulness  of  her  hosom  forth, 
And  gloried  in  the  triumph  of  his  worth. 
No  recollected  pain,  no  future  dread, 
Their  poison  o'er  that  blissful  moment  shed. 
A  moment  such  as  wedded  love  alone, 
From  earthly  passions,  wrests,  as  all  its  own ; 
Which  hope  emblazons  not,  nor  memory  pains, 
Ambition  gilds  not,  avarice  never  stains — 
A  moment  snatch'd  from  rose-hued  hours  above, 

Where  other  passions  die,  and  nought  is  known  but  love. 
E'en  Norman's  care-worn  visage  caught  a  beam 

Of  brightness  from  her  soul's  entrancing  gleam ; 

Though,  o'er  his  fine  expressive  features,  play'd, 

At  times,  the  gloom  of  thought's  habitual  shade — 


INDECISION.  109 

As  if  his  many  disappointments  taught 

That  life's  most  honey'd  draught  with  bitterness  is  fraught. 

The  fitful  gleams  that  brighten'4  o'er  his  face, 

To  settled  melancholy  grew  apace  ; 

And  ominous  abstraction  clos'd  his  ear 

To  joyous  accents,  though  he  seemed  to  hear. 

The  deeper  frown,  the  stern  contracted  eye, 

The  clenched  hand,  irrelative  reply, 

And  mutter'd  interruption  broke  the  charm 

That  wing'd  her  spirit  upwards.     In  alarm, 

She  wreath'd  her  arms  around  his  passive  frame, 

And  touch'd  attention  by  the  sacred  name 

Of  "husband." 

"Dearest  husband,  why  complain, 
When  heaven  is  smiling,  earth's  our  own  again, 
And  love  enfolds  with  flowers  his  spirit-woven  chain  ?" 

"  My  Ella,  earth  for  me  has  nought  in  store, 
Nor  rank,  nor  riches  please  my  spirit  more ! 
I've  lipp'd  too  oft  the  dregs  of  pleasure's  cup, 
To  drink  again  its  air-blown  bubbles  up. 
If  life  has  been  a  cheat,  when  youth  and  health, 
And  station  favour'd,  wrhen  with  friends  and  wealth 
10 


110  INDECISION. 

Abundantly  endow'd,  what  will  it  be 

When  feeble  age,  and  friendless  poverty, 

And  failing  health,  unnerve  the  shatter'd  soul, 

And  hold  it  captive  to  their  chill  control  ? 

Though  innocent,  my  jealous  pride  will  trace, 

In  every  eye,  the  signals  of  disgrace ; 

Nor  can  I  dare  the  wronger,  lest  he  cast 

A  foul  construction  o'er  the  dreaded  past. 

My  children,  too,  will  learn  the  garbled  truth, 
And  feel  too  soon  the  point  of  envy's  tooth, 

And  every  pang  they  bear  for  Norman's  shame 

Will  scorch  my  bosom  with  a  fiend-like  flame. 

You,  you,  who  lov'd  so  dearly  public  praise, 

When  o'er  my  better  fame  it  cast  its  bays, 

Will  tremble  when  my  name  is  breath'd,  lest  hate 

Or  carelessness  should  whisper  of  my  fate. 

A  kind  inquiry,  or  a  soft  reply, 

May  bring,  constructively,  an  agony; 

And  love  itself  will  fear  to  speak,  or  weigh 

Too  carefully  its  measur'd  words,  lest  they 

Should  touch  some  heart  string,  whose  suggestive  strain 

Might  waken  memory  to  a  work  of  pain. 


INDECISION.  Ill 

When  hate  must  wound,  and  love  itself  can  give 
But  bitterness,  why  should  I  wish  to  live  1 
I  feel  the  death-barb  in  my  inmost  heart, 
And  only  grieve  from  thee,  my  love,  to  part, 
And  my  sweet  children.     But  we'll  meet  again, 
Where  pleasure's  cup  is  never  drugg'd  by  pain, 
Where  sorrow  tracks  not  joy,  nor  virtue  wears 
A  crown,  whose  iron  rim  is  gemm'd  with  tears." 
"  Oh  !  talk  not  thus,  my  husband;  thou,  to  me, 
Though  poor,  and  old,  and  friendless,  still  shouldst  be 
The  sun-light  of  my  soul. — Thy  setting  day 
Wrould  shed  a  broader,  warmer,  sweeter  ray; 
The  dearer,  that  for  me  alone  it  pours 
Undazzling  lustre  on  our  lonely  hours. 
If  that  cold  world  you  dread  is  naught  to  you, 
Desert  it  boldly; — bid  these  fields  adieu, 
And  fly  to  voiceless  deserts.— Place,  to  me, 
Is  nothing,  if  my  heart  can  lean  on  thee: — 
And,  oh  !  how  welcome  solitude  will  prove, 
If  I  may  have  monopoly  of  love. — 
All  surely  cannot  vanish,  when  the  heart 
Of  one,  one  faithful  friend  will  not  depart. — 


112  INDECISION. 

'Twill  be  my  joy  to  speed  thee  to  the  wood, 
And  charm,  with  toils  for  thee,  my  solitude, 
And  make  the  cheerful  hearth  more  brightly  burn, 
And  deck  the  board  to  welcome  thy  return; 
Then  ever  meet  thee  smiling. — Eve  ne'er  knew, 
In  Paradise,  a  bliss  so  deep,  so  true; 
For  she  was  ever  happy,  and  the  grace, 
That  contrast  heightens,  could  not  bless  the  place. 

"And  there,  the  snares  of  life  will  not  betray 
Our  children's  steps,  nor  tempters  lead  astray 
Their  unsuspecting  natures. — Thou  wilt  pour 
Thy  moral  treasures  forth  at  evening  hour, 
And  lead  them  out  at  dawn,  to  urge  the  chase, 
Their  skill  to  sharpen,  and  their  thews  to  brace; 
So,  when  the  driving  world  again  shall  come, 
Through  falling  forests  to  our  sylvan  home, 
They'll  know  to  shun  the  devious  paths  of  wrong, 
And  passion's  potent  call,  and  pleasure's  siren-song. 

"  No  smile,  my  husband  1 — Let  me  kiss  away 
These  tears,  that  down  thy  cheek  in  sadness  stray. — 
What !  though  the  world  misjudge,  there  is  an  EYE, 
That  marks  the  just,  beyond  that  deep  blue  sky, 


INDECISION.  113 

Whose  lightest  smile  of  approbation  wears 
The  worth  of  kingdoms,  and  the  joy  of  years. — 
He  will  assuage  thy  sorrow. — Turn  to  him, 
Whose  glory  darkens  that  of  seraphim; 
And  then  this  earth,  its  wrongs  and  woes,  will  seem 
Disjointed  fragments  of  a  frightful  dream, 
Whose  only  use  will  be  to  make  the  bliss 
Of  waking  but  a  brighter  happiness." 

The  knee  was  bent,  the  graceful  arms  were  rais'd, 
And  wistfully  upon  the  sky  she  gaz'd, 
While  moving  lips,  and  flushing  cheeks,  declare 
The  depth  and  purpose  of  the  voiceless  prayer. 

Beside  her  knelt,  with  doubt-distracted  eye, 
And  pallid  cheek,  and  lip  of  agony, 
The  stricken  Norman. 

Years  have  passed  away 
Since  there  the  faithful  lovers  knelt  to  pray: 
But  not  of  months,  or  years,  or  time,  the  spell 
That  there  on  madden'd  Norman's  spirit  fell. — 
'Tvvas  sudden,  deep,  and  holy;  strong  to  save; 
But  not  his  mortal  frame  from  sorrow's  grave. 
10* 


114  INDECISION. 

He  liv'd  to  value  love,  to  conquer  pride, 

To  kiss  the  rod  that  smote  him— and  he  died; 

But  left,  in  dying,  this  impressive  truth, 

To  guard  from  Norman's  woes  the  thoughtful  youth, 

"  That  indecision  marks  its  path  with  tears; 

That  want  of  candour  darkens  future  years; 

That  perfect  truth  is  virtue's  safest  friend; 

And  that  to  shun  the  wrong  is  better  than  to  mend.'" 


POEMS. 


THE  GREEK  LOVERS. 

Written  in  an  album,  under  an  engraving  by  Durand,  after  a 
picture  by  Weer,  entitled,  "  Greek  Lovers." 

No  longer  here,  as  once  of  yore, 
When  love,  in  peace,  could  love  adore, 
The  Grecian  lover  woos  his  bride, 
With  vines  above  and  flowers  beside. 
His  scimitar  with  gore  is  wet, 
The  Pacha's  blood  bedews  it  yet. 
He  sought  her  in  the  Moslem's  tower, 
He  wrench'd  her  from  the  robber's  power, 
And  left  his  mansion  desolate, 
To  prove  his  love,  and  seal  his  hate. 


POEMS. 

Her  father  fell,  whore  all  but  fame 
Was  lost.     His  proudly  cherish'd  name, 
Though  still  a  war-cry  for  the  fight, 
A  hope-flash  o'er  a  starless  night 
Of  ungilt  bondage,  grac'd  alone, 
One  gentle  girl.     His  sons  were  gone; 
And  she,  a  slave,  was  doom'd  to  see, 
In  its  worst  form,  captivity. 

The  first  dark  day  of  bondage  set, 
In  fitting  night  of  storm  and  wet, 
And  wearied  victors  sought  repose, 
Nor  dreamt  of  harm  from  scatter'd  foes. 
The  maiden  at  the  casement  stood, 
And  watch'd  the  wild  and  flowing  flood, 
That  beat  against  the  Moslem's  wall, 
And  ponder'd  on  her  country's  fall. 
She  thought  not  of  herself;  the  fire 
That  burn'd  within  proclaim'd  her  sire, 
And  that  long  line  of  mighty  men, 
Whom  Greece  might  never  see 


POEMS.  117 

A  speck  is  floating  with  the  tide, 
A  growing  bulk,  a  boat,  a  form. 
It  is  her  lover's  !     To  her  side 
He  springs,  despite  the  guards  and  storm. 

A  moment,  and  the  bark  is  gain'd, 
The  dirk  unearth'd,  that  held  it  chain'd. 
They  spake  not;  scarcely  breath'd,  for  fear 
The  sound  might  reach  a  hostile  ear. 
His  foot  upon  the  deck  was  plac'd, 
His  lifting  arm  was  round  her  waist, 
He  paus'd,  look'd  back — 

"Not  yet!  not  yet! ! 
So  much  for  love !     There  is  a  debt 
Of  death,  unpaid.     I  cannot  flee, 
Ev'n  from  this  place  of  chains  with  thee, 
Until  'tis  cancel'd — rest  thee  here  ! 
A  child  of  Greece  should  know  no  fear ! 
This  rope  secures  the  boat.     Be  still, 
Though  sounds  should  rise  the  heart  to  chill. 
If  coming  feet  should  meet  thine  ear, 
And  I  am  silent,  do  not  fear; 


118  POEMS. 

But  if  I  cry,  '  farewell !  'tis  o'er !' 
Push  off  the  shallop  from  the  shore. 
Friends  wait  below  to  rescue  thee; 
There  yet  are  some,  whose  hands  are  free." 

"  Oh  do  not  leave  me  !  if  there  be 
A  danger,  let  me  go  with  thee ! 
I'd  rather  stay,  with  thee  to  die, 
Than  to  a  throne,  without  thee,  fly  !" 

"  It  must  not  be !     My  love,  forbear, 
'Twere  only  danger  thou  couldst  share; 
Thou  couldst  but  fetter  heart  and  steel, 
'Tis  mine  to  act — thou  wouldst  but  feel ; 
The  deed  is  bloody,  grim  the  foe, 
My  fears  for  thee  might  mar  the  blow ; 
Propitious  omens  bar  my  flight, 
The  'curse  of  Greece'  must  die  to-night." 

His  stay  was  long,  but  longer  still 
It  seem'd  to  her,  thus  doom'd  to  wait 


POEMS.  119 

For  him,  whose  coming1  steps  could  thrill 
Her  heart-strings,  like  the  touch  of  fate. 
Her  head  was  bent,  her  breath  was  low, 
She  heard,  though  guards  did  not,  the  blow, 
And  stretch'd  her  passion-sharpen'd  ear, 
The  cry  of  pain  or  rage,  to  hear; 
But  save  that  single  blow,  was  heard, 
Nor  stroke,  nor  bustle,  groan  nor  word. 

His  step  is  heard  at  last. 

"  Away ! 

The  moon  is  rising  !  no  delay  ! 
Fear  not;  the  guards  will  find  no  boat; 
I've  set  their  galley-slaves  afloat, 
And  they  are  drifting  with  the  tide, 
Without  an  oar  to  move  or  guide. 
He  spake  not !     How  I  long'd  to  wake 
The  foe,  and  open  vengeance  take, 
Recount  our  wrongs,  recite  our  tears, 
Alarm  his  pride,  arouse  his  fears, 
And  strike  him,  when  on  craven  knee, 
My  death  cry,  '  Greece  and  Liberty.' 


120  POEMS. 

"It  could  not  be;  I  fear'd  they  might 
Arrest  my  hand,  or  bar  thy  flight; 
And  though,  for  such  revenge,  my  life 
Were  price  too  mean,  the  startling  strife 
Had  peril'd  thee,  and  then,  oh  then, 
The  tyrants  had  been  paid  again. 
To  pass  away  were  nought  to  me, 
If  thou  wert  safe,  and  Greece  were  free, 
And  I  could  see  with  dying  eyes 
The  red-drops  of  the  sacrifice. 
But  better  thus  !     The  hand  that  gave 
That  hasty  blow  may  live  to  wave 
The  sword  in  open  fields,  and  slay 
Oppressors  in  the  face  of  day. 
Oh,  wretched  land  !  oh,  abject  time! 
When  public  vengeance  seems  like  crime, 
And  steals  upon  the  sleeping  foe 
To  give  an  unresisted  blow  ! 
But  hark  !  ha !  ha !  !     They've  found  him  too  ! 
The  wild  lament,  the  fierce  halloo, 
Betoken  grief,  proclaim  pursuit ! 
They're  tasting  now  the  bitter  fruit 


POEMS.  121 

Of  long  oppression! — Let  them  wail ! 
'Tis  but  a  prelude  to  the  tale 
Of  woes  to  come,  when,  great  and  free, 
All  Greece,  on  continent  and  sea, 
Shall  arm  and  strike  for  liberty." 

Years  pass  away. — The  Moslem  to\ver 
Seems  now  of  love  the  rosy  bower. — 
The  guards  are  gone,  the  warders  wait 
No  longer  at  the  iron  gate  ; 
But  childhood's  playful  laugh  is  there, 
And  gentle  woman's  soothing  care ; 
The  Grecian  standard  floats  above, 
And  frowning  Mars  is  gone,  and  Love 
Disports  him  in  its  peaceful  folds — 
The  victor  Greek  the  fortress  holds ; 
And  pours  into  his  Arta's  ear 
The  story  of  that  night  of  fear, 
When,  braving  flood  and  bearding  power, 
He  bore  her  from  the  Pacha's  tower. 
11 


122  P  O  E  M  S . 


THE  JAIL  AND  THE  ALMSHOUSE. 

A  PHILADELPHIANISM, 

jail, — What!  open,  neighbour  Almshouse,  to  the  sky, 
What  means  the  dreadful  ruin  I  espy  ! 
The  sturdy  rogues  have  crush'd  thy  wooden  crown, 
Thou  stalwart  beggar's  pride,  thou  tax-sink  of  the  town! 

Mnshouse.—O  yes,  I'm  going  fast,  the  shingles  fall, 
The  joists  are  cracking,  and  the  groaning  wall 
Bends  to  the  nod  of  fate;  already  gone 
My  li glits  and  livers,  and  the  sign  alone, 
Assured  of  death  at  hand,  alas  !  remains, 
For  sinking  nature's  left  without  her  panes. 

Jail— K\\ !  what  a  sacrilege  !  that  open  door, 
So  indiscriminate  to  sorrow,  now  no  more, 


r  O  E  M  S .  123 

The  common  sewer  of  sympathy  is  choak'd, 
And  suffering's  last  sad  privilege  revoked, 
The  winter  tent  of  calculating  vice 
Is  fairly  struck — or  will  be  in  a  trice. 

Mmshouse. — Oh,  'tis  the  common  fate  of  western  things  ! 
These  restless  democrats  !  If  we  had  kings, 
Houses  would  longer  stand ;  but  here  in  vain 
Antiquity  may  beg  for  length  of  useless  reign. 
Expediency,  or  love  of  change,  or  hate 
Of  ills  inevitable  hastens  on  our  fate  ; 
Nothing  escapes  rotation-loving  rage, 
We  pass  like  Shakspeare's  ghosts  across  the  stage, 
No  shadow  casting  as  away  we  speed, 
For  who  our  beggar-loving  tale  will  read  1 

Jail. — But  yet,  I  trust,  before  you  make  a  die, 
You'll  make  at  least,  for  me,  a  di-ary. 

Mmshouse. — Ah!   'twere  a  task  indeed,  in  my  weak 

state, 
To  copy  for  you  the  whole  book  of  fate ; 


124  POEMS. 

For  scarcely  can  you  name  a  human  woe, 

To  which  my  inmates  can't  a  likeness  show, 

From  that  which  mourns  o'er  pleasure's  broken  spell, 

To  joyous  madness  laughing  in  his  cell. 

Within  my  chambers  find  alike  a  home, 

The  ruin'd  tenants  of  the  hut  and  dome, 

The  cast-off  beauty,  and  the  worn  out  slave, 

The  luckless  gamester,  and  the  crippled  brave : 

You  also  help  to  fill  my  motley  rooms, 

The  Almshouse  tenant  sheds  the  Jail's  perfumes, 

And,  train'd  by  you,  disciplin'd  crime  resorts, 

For  shelter  and  corruption,  to  my  courts. 

Jail. — Indeed !  you're  caustic,  neighbour,  you  forget 
That  I  receive  from  you,  for  every  pet 
I  send  you,  scores  of  alcoholic  wretches, 
Mere  sans  culottes,  that's  French  without  the  breeches. 
You  teach  them  first  to  idle,  then  to  steal, 
A  democratic  use  of  commonweal. 
You  call  yourself  a  "  Bettering  House,"  a  name, 
Like  lucus,  which  from  non  lucendo  came, 


POEMS.  125 

Or,  as  in  English,  speaking  through  the  nose 

Just  signifies  that  nothing  through  it  goes, 

A   "  Bettering    House,"    means    "  House    for    making 

worse  ;" 
Deterioration  is  an  Almshouse  curse. 

Jlhnshonse. — You   do  me  wrong,  you   granite-hearted 

toad  ! 

Through  rusty  iron  bars  you  look  abroad; 
And  in  such  spectacles  the  world  you  view, 
That  every  thing  is  iron-y  with  you. — 
You're  fill'd  with  harden'd  rogues,  whose  chief  concern 
Is  how  some  novel  feat  of  sin  to  learn; 
Or  teach  the  boys,  and  praise  their  imp-like  wit, 
And  make  the  roguelings  for  the  gallows  fit. 
You'll  have  your  turn  of  fortune,  and,  like  me, 
A  victim  to  suppos'd  expediency, 
Be  offered  up,  by  being  tumbled  down, 
And  raz'd,  by  being  leveFd  to  the  ground. 
The  Bar  may  lend  you  aid,  and  even  the  grate 
Conservatively  strive  to  keep  your  state, 
11* 


126  POEMS. 

Bat,  'spite  of  all  your  puns,  you'll  punished  be, 
For  crowbars  better  are  than  Bars,  you  see. 

Jail.— Pray  quit  thy  gibes,  there's  grief  in  store  for  me, 
And  thy  own  fate  is  quite  enough  for  thee. — 
If  signs  may  tell  of  sorrow  yet  to  come, 
I  see  sad  omens  of  approaching  doom. 
The  sage  "inspectors"  shake  their  heads,  and  sigh, 
When  oft-imprison'd  rogues  again  they  spy, 
And  say,  how  much  of  rank  contagion  dwells 
In  crowded  yards  and  congregating  cells; 
And  dare  to  tell  me  that  the  deepest  schemes 
Are  laid,  when  jailors  think  the  prisoner  dreams; 
That  all  the  good  I  do  is  to  constrain 
Impetuous  crime  within  my  own  domain, 
And,  though  their  darkest  deeds  I  seem  to  smother, 
I  let  the  rascals  worry  one  another. — 
Imprison'd  scoundrels,  fiercer  by  restraint, 
But  play  the  devil,  while  they  act  the  saint, 
And,  like  a  field-piece  ramm'd  more  tightly  down, 
Go  off  with  greater  fury  on  the  town. 


POEMS.  127 

In  vain  I  cry,  Fve  kept  upon  the  square,* 
They  tell  me  'tis  a  sin  my  being  there, 
And  then  my  motley  structure's  out  of  tune, 
My  head  in  Walnut,  and  my  tail  in  Prune;^ 
Descend  I  must,  without  a  tear  for  me, 
Save  the  tear  down,  and  that  no  down  will  be  ! 
For  if  they  handle  me  as  you  are  handled, 
Even  Gneiss  itself  won't  like  to  be  so  dandled; 
The  very  apprehension  makes  me  scandled, 
To  be  to  death  by  such  a  cruel  band  led. 

Mmshouse. — Well,  neighbour!    I   am   sorry  for   your 

terrors, 

But  more  for  what  has  pointed  them — your  errors. — 
But  why  do  you  at  paying  death's  sad  toll  quail? 
You  have  no  soul,  for  you  are  not  the  sole  jail! 
You  needn't  cry — you'll  meet  no  after  fate — 
You  do  belong  but  to  the  present  stale.^ 

*  Washington  square. 
f  Names  of  streets. 
|  State  property. 


128  P  O  E  M  S . 

Jail. — That's  true  at  present,  but  I  may  be  sold, 
And  sink,  like  Benton,  in  the  current  gold; 
And  that  would  cast  me  down,  for  not  to  stand — 
Are  such  things  so-led  in  this  driving  land  1 

Jllmshouse. — Och  !  I  can  bear  no  longer,  for  you  see, 
These  busy  wretches  how  they  shorten  me; 
And  as  I  longer  shall  no  longer  be, 
I  short-ly  shall  be-long  to  nobody  ! 

The  Washington  Monument,  in  posse. — Were  ever  heaid 

such  sighing,  punning  fools  1 

They've  learnt  their  wit  in  Philadelphian  schools  ! 
For  me,  if  ever  I  should  show  my  head 
Above  the  soil,  I'll  not  be  so  soil-led,- 
But,  then,  I'm  told,  that  Philadelphia  AIR, 
And  WATER-WORKS,  and  MARKET-HOUSE,  and  BUTTER, 
And  WASHINGTON  and  INDEPENDENCE  SQUARE, 
Will  make  a  wit  of  one  who  used  to  splutter; 
That  strangers,  even,  catch  the  rank  infection, 
And  pun,  as  some  are  smokers,  for  protection. 
The  mint  door-keeper  thrusts  them  back,  and  cross, 
They  cry,  What,  sir !  no  more  of  your  mint  sauce. 


POEMS.  129 

One  slyly  gazes  on  the  fair  Exchange, 

The  last  Minerva  of  our  Strickland's  brains, 

And,  as  his  eyes  along-  its  beauties  range, 

"JVb  robbery  this,"  exultingly  exclaims. 

And,  when  the  water-works  are  in  his  eye, 

Some  simple  rustic  asks  the  reason  "  Why 

Like  the  whole  state  is  the  revolving  wheel — 

D'ye  give  it  up  ] — It  is  the  common-weal." 

The  cit,  to  some  good  Dutchman,  gives  account 

Of  squares  and  temples — rail-roads  and  Fairmount; 

To  which  the  other  answers,  sure  you  know 

Where's  the  Bost  Office,  tell  me,  and  I'll  go  ? 

Ev'n  Scotchmen,  who've  mo  pun-itch,  will,  when  I 

Exalt  (ah!  when?)  my  hero  to  the  sky, 

Admire  the  beauties  in  his  figure  blent, 

And  cry,  "  Is  this,  indeed,  the  Mon-y cm-meant ?" 

So,  I  suppose,  that  I,  when  my  foundation 

Is  built  upon,  will  edify  the  station 

By  many  a  joke;  for,  if  the  Jail  may  take 

The  liberty  but  one  free  joke  to  make, 


130  POEMS. 

And  bettering  house  make  English  much  the  worse, 

As,  to  American,  it  proves  a  curse, 

/'//  be  a  rising  character  of  course, 

And,  though  Pm  storfd,  wont  be  "  a  wit  the  worse."* 

*  These  lines  were  written  before  the  removal  of  the  old 
Jail  and  Almshouse,  and  are  not  applicable  to  the  buildings  now 
governed  under  better  auspices. 


POEMS.  131 


THOM'S  STATUES. 

AH  RABIN  BURNS  !  if  aught  could  raise 
Thy  g-haist  frae  aut  thy  ain  Scots'  braes, 
And  bring  thee  frae  the  gowand  grave 
To  sing  another  Doric  stave, 
I'm  thinkin  Thorn's  poetic  stanes 
Wad  be  to  thee  like  prophet's  banes, 
And  kindle  maist  thy  slumbering  ashes 
Anew  in  wild  poetic  flashes. 
I'd  like  to  see  thee  rub  thine  eyes, 
And  hotch  and  glow'r  wi'  glad  surprise, 
At  this  thy  winsome  muse's  pride, 
In  happiest  skill  solidified. 

Could'st  thou  hae  dreamed,  when  Tarn  O'Shanter 
Sae  madly  through  thy  brain  did  canter, 


132  POEMS. 

And  thou  thyself  could'st  hardly  hold 
The  bright  conception  'till  'twas  told  ; 
That,  uninstructed  like  ihyscl, 
Thorn  should  in  stone  the  story  tell  ; 
And  frae  his  brain's  bright  image  wholly, 
His  guide,  his  rustic  genius  solely, 
Bring  out,  frae  native  Air-shire  grit, 
A  Tarn  O'Shanter  almost  fit 
To  match  the  image  wrought  by  thee, 
In  thy  wild  muse's  ecstasy. 

And  there's  the  Souter,  blythe  guid  man, 
\Vi'  sonsy  smile,  and  emptied  can  ! 
That  knowing  look  of  humour  too, 
That  Ayr's  shrewd  poet  richly  drew  ; 
As,  listening  to  his  queerest  stories, 
The  silly  Landlord's  laugh  was  chorus  ! 

The  Landlord's  head,  and  swinging  mouth, 
And  legs  relaxed,  and  laugh  uncouth, 
Are  such  as  nature  gives  to  grinners 
At  a'  the  tales  o'  a'  the  sinners 


POEMS.  133 

Wha  buy  their  swats.     He's  jist  the  same, 
That  o'er  thy  vision,  Rabin,  came, 
When  mem'ry  o'  thine  am  daft  days 
Set  a'  thy  humour  in  a  blaze. 

Auld  Ayr,  ye'll  own  that  gorgeous  sample 
0'  winsome  features,  bosom  ample, 
And  sinewy  frame  that  marks  the  wife 
O'  labouring  men  in  Scottish  life  ! 
Tarn  weel  might  lo'e  that  sonsie  face, 
And  flatter' d  wi'  her  listening  grace, 
And  favour'd  by  the  Souter's  story, 
And  drown'd  in  swats  inspiring  glory, 
Care  naught  for  kirks,  and  foords  and  witches, 
And  roarin  storms,  and  bogle's  screeches; 
Nor  what  he  aften  dreaded  maist 
As  muckle  as  a  witch  or  ghaist, 
The  weel-nurs'd  wrath  o'  his  ain  dame, 
That  made  him  fear'd  amaist  o'  name  ; 
But  now  he's  fou',  and  wife  and  deil 
Are  no  a  match  for  sic  a  chie). 
12 


134  POEMS. 


LOVE  IS  A  PARTHIAN. 

Written  in  a  Lady's  Album,  under  a  picture  of  Love  engaged 
in  whetting  a  dart. 

When  Love  is  advancing 

To  capture  the  heart, 
With  soft  wiles  entrancing, 

He  shows  not  a  dart ; 

His  bow  slung  behind  him 

Unstrung,  seems  to  show 
The  heart  will  not  find  him — 

The  sweet  one — a  foe. 

In  his  eye  hope  is  swimming, 

Bliss  laughs  on  his  lip, 
The  bowl  that  he's  brimming, 

'Tis  transport  to  sip  ; 


POEMS.  135 

And,  while  he  remains  there, 

Mid  sunshine  or  shower, 
The  urchin  maintains^  there 

The  bloom  of  his  bower. 

But  guard  'gainst  his  flying-, 

When  whetting-  his  dart, 
And  playfully  trying 

His  wings  for  a  start ; 

For  Love  wounds,  no  never, 

The  heart  where  he  lies, 
A  Parthian  ever, 

He  shoots  when  he  flies. 


1.36  TOEMS. 


THE  NEW  AND  THE  OLD  SONG 

A  new  song  should  be  sweetly  sung, 

It  goes  but  to  the  ear ; 
A  new  song  should  be  sweetly  sung, 

For  it  touches  no  one  near : 
But  an  old  song  may  be  roughly  sung; 

The  ear  forgets  its  art, 
As  comes  upon  the  rudest  tongue, 

The  tribute  to  the  heart. 

A  new  song  should  be  sweetly  sung, 

For  memory  gilds  it  not ; 
It  brings  not  back  the  strains  that  rung 

Through  childhood's  sunny  cot. 
But  an  old  song  may  be  roughly  sung, 

It  tells  of  days  of  gjee, 


POEMS.  137 

When  the  boy  to  his  mother  clung, 
Or  danc'd  on  his  father's  knee. 

On  tented  fields  'tis  welcome  still ; 

'Tis  sweet  on  the  stormy  sea, 
In  forest  wild,  on  rocky  hill, 

And  away  on  the  prairie-lea  : — 
But  dearer  far  the  old  song, 

When  friends  we  love  are  nio-h, 
And  well  known  voices,  clear  and  strong, 

Unite  in  the  chorus-cry, 

Of  the  old  song,  the  old  song, 

The  song  of  the  days  of  glee, 
WThen  the  boy  to  his  mother  clung, 

Or  danc'd  on  his  father's  knee  ! 
Oh,  the  old  song — the  old  sono*! 

The  song  of  the  days  of  glee, 
The  new  song  may  be  better  sung, 

But  the  good  old  song  for  me  ! 
12* 


138  POEMS. 


TO  THE  MOON. 

THOU  bright,  benignant  planet,  oft  the  theme 
Of  Poet's  numbers,  and  of  lover's  dream; 
Wonder  of  infant  eyes,  whose  new-born  gaze 
Dwells  on  thy  glittering  orb  in  sweet  amaze; 
And,  though  thy  beams  the  playful  boy  delight, 
Both  age  and  manhood  love  a  moon-lit  night. 
O  Moon  !  how  blest  appears  thy  envied  lot, 
Hung  far  above  this  care-soil'd,  dusty  spot, 
In  planet-gilded  skies,  serenely  bright, 
Regent  of  peace,  and  queen  of  tranquil  night ! 
Th'  observ'd  of  all,  who  does  not  love 
Thy  smile  in  city,  field,  or  grove  1 
Can  aught  surpass  thy  slender  bow, 
Its  steely  horns,  its  crystal  glow  1 


POEMS.  139 

Is  there  a  more  enchanting  thing 

Than  Dian's  round  resplendent  ring1, 

When,  turning  to  the  sun  herface, 

She  sheds  his  light  with  softened  grace, 

And  flings  a  sentimental  power 

O'er  hill,  and  vale,  and  stream,  and  bower  1 

Ev'n  the  cold  fickle  waters  try 

To  scale  for  thee  the  lofty  sky, 

Untrue  to  all  besides,  to  thee, 

Pattern  of  faith  and  constancy. — 

Old  Homer  loved  thy  presence,  when  he  sung 

Of  Moon-light  glories,  then  his  harp  strings  rung 

With  more  than  magic  power,  and  never  fell 

The  bard  beneath  himself,  when  chanting  of  thy  spell. — 

Who  can  forget  how  Ossian  sung  thy  praise, 

"  Daughter  of  Heaven,"  and  mourn'd  his  sightless  gaze, 

Depriv'd  of  all  the  sweetness  of  the  night, 

When  nature  slumbers  in  her  blandest  light1? 

And  Milton  lov'd  thee,  too.    "  Unhappy  White"  * 

Drank  through  thy  beams  a  poet's  pure  delight, 

*  Henry  Kirk  White. 


140  POEMS. 

And  found  in  thee,  what  all  who  feel  have  found, 

Even  amid  pain,  tranquillity  profound. — 

Soother  of  Godman's*  hreast,  if  thou  could'st  know 

The  value  of  that  boon,  thy  face  would  brighter  glow  ! 

Such  feelings  mount,  when  happy  dreamers'  eyes, 
Deceived  by  distance,  hail  thee  'mid  the  skies; 
But,  when  grave  science  points  to  thee  her  glass, 
How  alter'd  is  the  scene,  how  soon  such  visions  pass ! 
Well  might  the  poet  liken  thy  wild  field, 
Thy  ruin'd  surface,  to  the  Demon's  shield. f 
No  cooling  oceans  lave  thy  burning  shores, 
No  dew  to  verdure  parching  plains  restores; 
Nor  air,  nor  ocean,  cools  thy  fiery  face; 
Volcanoes,  rocks,  and  ruins,  fill  the  place. 
A  hundred  mountain-fires  above  thee  glow, 
Along  thy  plains  ignited  lavas  flow 
In  fearful  grandeur,  telling  hideous  tale 
Of  a  world's  ruin,  given  to  fiery  bale: 

*  John  D.  Godman,  \vho  wrote  beautifully  to  "  The  Moon, 
t  Milton. 


POEMS.  141 

Whose  living1  things,  if  there  were  living  things, 

Perish'd  beneath  a  hundred  molten  springs. — 

Thy  softened  crust,  unable  to  restrain 

Thy  central  fires,  submits  to  Pluto's  reign, 

The  Fire-King  rules  alone  his  furnace-formed  domain. 

And  yet  there's  hope  for  thee;  forever  so 
Shall  not  thy  mountains  and  thy  valleys  glow. 
The  earth,  from  which  I  greet  thee,  felt  his  sway, 
And  long  beneath  the  Fire-King's  engines  lay: 
Vast  remnants  of  his  empire  yet  remain, 
On  many  a  blasted  hill,  and  wasted  plain, 
Where  long-extinct  volcanoes,  whose  huge  cup 
Might  swallow  many  a  modern  mountain  up, 
Have  poured  from  central  caves,  their  place  of  birth, 
Gigantic  streams  of  lava  o'er  the  earth. — 
What  heaved  the  granite  high  into  the  air l. 
What  hung  the  porph'ry  in  its  eyrie  there  1 
What  slop'd  the  strata  of  that  mighty  crust, 
Which  dips  for  many  a  mile  beneath  the  dust  1 
One  universal  earthquake  bent  the  shell, 
And  every  land  the  fiery  tale  may  tell  ! 


142  POEMS. 

The  Deluge  came,  and  buried  deep  the  earth, 

Embosoming  aquatic  tilings,  whose  birth 

First  claim'd  the  care  of  that  creative  hand, 

Whose  after  labours  drain'd  the  delug'd  land. — 

Whence  came  that  water  ?     None  may  tell  the  tale, 

Unless  the  moon  the  truth  sublime  unveil, 

When  infant  verdure  fringes  new-born  rills, 

And  caps  of  snow  encircle  lunar  hills; 

When  air  and  ocean  bless  the  burning  clime, 

And  living  races  hail  the  birth  of  time. 

Haply  for  this,  some  cornet  waves  his  hair, 

And  flies,  with  thee,  to  make  his  final  lair: 

From  star-sunn'd  sources  mist-form'd  water  brings, 

To  cool  thy  crust,  and  quench  volcanic  springs. 

If  such  thy  fate,  O  Moon,  the  sage  will  pry 

Into  thy  bosom  with  delighted  eye, 

And  joy  to  see  thy  shining  orb  improve, 

As  did  the  earth,  beneath  the  Wing  of  Love; 

To  see  thy  lands  emerge,  thy  oceans  glow, 

Thy  forests  flourish,  and  thy  rivers  flow; 

To  see  thy  realms  of  life  and  joy  expand, 

And  new  creations  bless  the  Maker's  hand. 


POEMS.  143 


As  we  have  had  so  often  the  unhappiness  of  being  totally 
abused  by  travellers,  who  consider  home  as  the  sole  criterion 
of  excellence,  and  of  course  censure  all,  wherein  we  differ  from 
that  standard,  I  have  taken  the  trouble  to  translate  part  of  a  let 
ter,  by  a  traveller  of  a  better  stamp,  who  has  the  singular  merit, 
it  ought  to  be  so  esteemed  in  our  eyes,  of  having  discovered  at 
least  one  excellence  on  this  side  of  the  globe. 

TO  AFONG  MOY. 

So  you're  an  antipode,  they  say, 

And  that's  the  reason  why 
You  make  so  little  a  display 

Of  pedal  property. 

We're  sorry,  girl,  that  you  should  stand 

On  suck  a  footing  here, 
Since  far  you've  come  to  see  our  land, 

From  China's  shining  sphere. 


144  POEMS. 

Yet  few  of  our  ambitious  belles 
Your  cliquish  lot  would  choose, 

Or  stand,  whate'er  your  herald  tells, 
In  Afong's  little  shoes. 

What  could  have  lured  thee  far  away 

From  thy  celestial  home: 
From  C urn-Fa's*  sweet  protecting  sway, 

And  Puk-Tay'sf  sacred  dome  ] 

Hadst  thou  no  fears,  that  day  might  foil 
On  Fan-qui's£  distant  shore, 

Where  China's  trembling  sun  turns  pale 
At  Qui's§  tremendous  roar  1 

Didst  thou  suppose  thy  tiny  feet 
By  day-light  could  be  shown, 

*  Golden  flower,  a  goddess  presiding  over  females, 
t  God  of  the  Polar  Star,  worshipped  by  sailors. 
$  Strange  Devil,  or  foreigner. 
§  Devil. 


POEMS.  145 

Or  think  that  Fa-ke*  work'd  and  eat 
By  candle-light  alone  ? 

When  hopes  of  happier  climes  allure 

The  wanderer  from  the  strand, 
What  must  the  feeling  heart  endure 

As  fades  the  native  land  1 

But,  oh !  to  quit  thine  own  Whampoo,| 

With  Qui-si's£  to  depart: 
To  hear  Andeen's  farewell  halloo, 

How  beat  thy  tiny  heart"? 

To  see  thine  own  Pagoda  fade, 
And  Quang-tong's  hills  turn  blue, 

And  tall  Lintin,  in  flickering  shade, 
Escaping  from  the  view  ; 

*  Flower  flag-,  a  name  given  to  the  Americans,  by  mistaking 
the  stars  on  the  flag  for  flowers.  The  English  are  called  Red 
Heads. 

t  The  town  at  the  anchorage  near  Canton. 

J  Western  devils,  or  little  devils,  another  name  for  foreigners. 

13 


146  POEMS. 

To  hear  the  gong's  last,  sweetest  note, 

The  fife's  expiring  scream — 
To  see  the  dragon-standard  float 

On  Ta's  receding  stream ; 

'Twas  bravely  done !  from  Quoon-yum's*  light 

To  turn  your  doubting  view 
Towards  untried  realms  of  storm  and  night, 

As  on  the  Fa-ke  flew  ; 

'Twas  bravely  done  !  and  now,  my  lass, 

What  think  ye  of  the  land  1 
Will't  do!  will  Fo-kef  say,  "  can  pass!" 

We'd  like  to  understand. 

You've  written  home,  I  find,  to  tell 

Your  people  what  you  see: 
And,  that  the  rest  may  better  sell, 

A  part  shall  published  be. 


*  The  supreme  divinity  of  the  Chinese. 

f  Countryman,  a  familiar  salutatory  of  the  Chinese. 


POEMS.  147 

To  TSEEN  NGUN  QUA:— 

*     *     *     *     (t  What  horrid  girls  they  have,  and  then 

They  stare  about  them  so; 
They  look,  for  all  the  world,  as  men, 
Or  water-people  do. 

One  wife  the  married  man  condemns 

To  all  his  household  duties; 
No  female  colleague  sews  or  hems, 

No  flock  has  he  of  beauties. 

How  lonely  for  the  single  wife  ! 

No  friend  for  play  or  toil, 
No  beauty  for  exciting  strife, 

No  ugly  one  for  foil. 

The  little  girls  run  out  to  school, 

No  pains  to  swathe  their  feet; 
They  let  them  romp,  and  play  the  fool, 

And  think  the  hoydens  sweet. 


140  POEMS. 

And  found  in  thee,  what  all  who  feel  have  found, 
Even  amid  pain,  tranquillity  profound. — 
Soother  of  Godman's*  breast,  if  thou  could'st  know 
The  value  of  that  boon,  thy  face  would  brighter  glow  ! 

Such  feelings  mount,  when  happy  dreamers'  eyes, 
Deceived  by  distance,  hail  thee  'mid  the  skies; 
But,  when  grave  science  points  to  thee  her  glass, 
How  alter'd  is  the  scene,  how  soon  such  visions  pass ! 
Well  might  the  poet  liken  thy  wild  field, 
Thy  ruin'd  surface,  to  the  Demon's  shield. f 
No  cooling  oceans  lave  thy  burning  shores, 
No  dew  to  verdure  parching  plains  restores; 
Nor  air,  nor  ocean,  cools  thy  fiery  face; 
Volcanoes,  rocks,  and  ruins,  fill  the  place. 
A  hundred  mountain-fires  above  thee  glow, 
Along  thy  plains  ignited  lavas  flow 
In  fearful  grandeur,  telling  hideous  tale 
Of  a  world's  ruin,  given  to  fiery  bale: 

*  John  D.  Godman,  who  wrote  beautifully  to  "  The  Moon." 
t  Milton. 


POEMS.  141 

Whose  living1  things,  if  there  were  living1  things, 

Perish'd  beneath  a  hundred  molten  springs. — 

Thy  softened  crust,  unable  to  restrain 

Thy  central  fires,  submits  to  Pluto's  reign, 

The  Fire-King  rules  alone  his  furnace-formed  domain. 

And  yet  there's  hope  for  thee;  forever  so 
Shall  not  thy  mountains  and  thy  valleys  glow. 
The  earth,  from  which  I  greet  thee,  felt  his  sway, 
And  long  beneath  the  Fire-King's  engines  lay: 
Vast  remnants  of  his  empire  yet  remain, 
On  many  a  blasted  hill,  and  wasted  plain, 
Where  long-extinct  volcanoes,  whose  huge  cup 
Might  swallow  many  a  modern  mountain  up, 
Have  poured  from  central  caves,  their  place  of  birth, 
Gigantic  streams  of  lava  o'er  the  earth. — 
WThat  heaved  the  granite  high  into  the  air  1 
What  hung  the  porph'ry  in  its  eyrie  there  1 
What  slop'd  the  strata  of  that  mighty  crust, 
Which  dips  for  many  a  mile  beneath  the  dust  1 
One  universal  earthquake  bent  the  shell, 
And  every  land  the  fiery  tale  may  tell  ! 


142  POEMS. 

The  Deluge  came,  and  buried  deep  the  earth, 

Embosoming  aquatic  tilings,  whose  birth 

First  claim'd  the  care  of  that  creative  hand, 

Whose  after  labours  drain'd  the  delug'd  land. — 

Whence  came  that  water  1     None  may  tell  the  tale, 

Unless  the  moon  the  truth  sublime  unveil, 

When  infant  verdure  fringes  new-born  rills, 

And  caps  of  snow  encircle  lunar  hills; 

When  air  and  ocean  bless  the  burning  clime, 

And  living  races  hail  the  birth  of  time. 

Haply  for  this,  some  comet  waves  his  hair, 

And  flies,  with  thee,  to  make  his  final  lair: 

From  star-sunn'd  sources  mist-form'd  water  brings, 

To  cool  thy  crust,  and  quench  volcanic  springs. 

If  such  thy  fate,  0  Moon,  the  sage  will  pry 

Into  thy  bosom  with  delighted  eye, 

And  joy  to  see  thy  shining  orb  improve, 

As  did  the  earth,  beneath  the  Wing  of  Love; 

To  see  thy  lands  emerge,  thy  oceans  glow, 

Thy  forests  flourish,  and  thy  rivers  flow; 

To  see  thy  realms  of  life  and  joy  expand, 

And  new  creations  bless  the  Maker's  hand. 


POEMS.  143 


As  we  have  had  so  often  the  unhappiness  of  being  totally 
abused  by  travellers,  who  consider  home  as  the  sole  criterion 
of  excellence,  and  of  course  censure  all,  wherein  we  differ  from 
that  standard,  I  have  taken  the  trouble  to  translate  part  of  a  let 
ter,  by  a  traveller  of  a  better  stamp,  who  has  the  singular  merit, 
it  ought  to  be  so  esteemed  in  our  eyes,  of  having  discovered  at 
least  one  excellence  on  this  side  of  the  globe. 

TO  AFONG  MOY. 

So  you're  an  antipode,  they  say, 

And  that's  the  reason  why 
You  make  so  little  a  display 

Of  pedal  property. 

We're  sorry,  girl,  that  you  should  stand 

On  such  a  footing  here, 
Since  far  you've  come  to  see  our  land, 

From  China's  shining  sphere. 


144  POEMS. 

Yet  few  of  our  ambitious  belles 
Your  cliquish  lot  would  choose, 

Or  stand,  whate'er  your  herald  tells, 
In  Afong's  little  shoes. 

What  could  have  lured  thee  far  away 

From  thy  celestial  home: 
From  Gum-Fa's*  sweet  protecting-  sway, 

And  Puk-Tay'sf  sacred  dome  1 

Hadst  thou  no  fears,  that  day  might  fail 
On  Fan-qui's^:  distant  shore, 

Where  China's  trembling  sun  turns  pale 
At  Qui's§  tremendous  roar  1 

Didst  thou  suppose  thy  tiny  feet 
By  day-light  could  be  shown, 

*  Golden  flower,  a  goddess  presiding  over  females, 
t  God  of  the  Polar  Star,  worshipped  by  sailors. 
^  Strange  Devil,  or  foreigner. 
§  Devil. 


POEMS.  145 

Or  think  that  Fa-ke*  work'd  and  eat 
By  candle-light  alone  1 

When  hopes  of  happier  climes  allure 

The  wanderer  from  the  strand, 
What  must  the  feeling  heart  endure 

As  fades  the  native  land  1 

But,  oh  !  to  quit  thine  own  Whampoo,f 

With  Qui-si's^:  to  depart: 
To  hear  Andeen's  farewell  halloo, 

How  beat  thy  tiny  heart? 

To  see  thine  own  Pagoda  fade, 
And  Quang-tong's  hills  turn  blue, 

And  tall  Lintin,  in  flickering  shade, 
Escaping  from  the  view  ; 

*  Flower  flag-,  a  name  given  to  the  Americans,  by  mistaking 
the  stars  on  the  flag  for  flowers.  The  English  are  called  Red 
Heads. 

t  The  town  at  the  anchorage  near  Canton. 

$  Western  devils,  or  little  devils,  another  name  for  foreigners. 

13 


154  POEMS. 

It  was  to  conquer  principles — to  wring 

Sword  from  hereditary  despot,  sceptre  from  the  king-. 

And  can  it  be,  thou  banner  of  the  free, 

That  ere  the  shout  of  recent  victory 

Dies  on  the  breeze,  while  yet  the  generous  prayer 

Of  those  who  fell,  is  fresh  upon  the  ear, 
Thy  children  seek  the  yoke,  whose  bruit  alone 
Shook,  to  its  very  base,  a  mighty  monarch's  throne  ? 

They  burst  their  chains,  tho'  forged  of  gold  and  gems, 

And  spurn' d  the  proffer' d  gift  of  diadems, 

While  we,  for  office,  or  for  party,  yield 

The  laurels  won  on  many  a  bloody  field, 
And  give  their  toils  and  honours  to  the  wind, 
And  mar  the  mighty  dream  of  freedom  for  mankind. 

O  spirits  of  the  mighty  dead,  who  broke, 
Of  stern  prerogative,  the  gilded  yoke — 
O  Washington  !  O  Warren  !  come  again, 
Come  to  the  council-board,  the  battle-plain  ! 


POEMS.  155 

But,  no  !  If  we  are  to  ourselves  untrue, 
'Twere  vain  your  toil  and  peril  to  renew, 
The  abject  spirit  of  the  times  would  all  the  good  undo ! 


156  POEMS. 


THE  LAUNCH. 

OH  !  bright  and  beautiful,  again  I  hail 

Thy  glorious  face,  thou  field  of  growing  stars, 

As,  gently  waving  to  the  softest  gale, 

The  victor-emblem  of  three  glorious  wars 

Floats  o'er  the  giant  ship,  whose  graceful  frame 

Is  matchless,  since,  to  his,  old  Noah  gave  a  name. 

Though  much  I  joy'd  to  see  the  mighty  pile 
Descending  with  a  grand,  yet  quiet  grace, 
And  could  not  stifle  the  exulting  smile, 
As,  with  triumphant  air,  she  took  her  place 
On  Ocean's  vassal  waters,  soon  to  be, 
Herself,  the  proudest  thing  upon  the  proudest  sea. 


POEMS.  157 

Yet  more  my  soul  exulted,  as  around, 

In  bright,  and  brave,  and  beautiful  array, 

The  thronging  thousands,  at  the  signal  sound, 

In  breathless  silence,  saw  her  start  away, 

And  then,  with  wild  and  thundering  shout,  sent  forth 

The  patriots'  honest  pride,  the  tribute  to  her  worth. 

O  flag,  if  thou  a  merchant's  bark  had  grac'd, 
Of  vaster  frame  above  the  startled  brine, 
Whose  form  with  more  surpassing  beauty  blaz'd, 
But  few  had  hailed  that  starry  face  of  thine, 
And  none  had  sent  the  shout,  or  held  the  breath, 
Or  felt  as  if  for  it  he  could  have  dared  to  death. 

Some  pride  of  art  was  mingled  with  the  burst, 
Some  sense  of  grace  and  beauty  echo'd  there, 
But,  flag  of  freedom,  loudest,  deepest,  first, 
The  shout  for  THEE  was  ringing  on  the  air ; 
Pride  for  thine  ancient  glory,  hope  for  new, 
As  o'er  the  peerless  ship  the  cloudless  planets  flew. 
14 


158  POEMS. 

Oh,Jlag  of  honored  principles,  when  thou 

Art  streaming  from  the  PENNSYLVANIA'S  mast, 

Though  arm'd  with  matchless  strength,  remain,  as  now, 

A  lovely  thing,  to  shelter,  not  to  hlast ; 

The  refuge  of  the  weak,  alone  the  dread 

Of  those  who  on  the  rights  of  nature  roughly  tread. 

Oh;  with  the  just  and  peaceful,  peaceful  be, 
As  he  who  gave  a  name  to  this  fair  state, 
And  carry  with  thee  to  the  conquer'd  sea, 
His  pledge  of  friendship,  and  his  holy  hate 

Of  all  oppression .     But  remember,  too, 

In  battle,  what  to  warrior  Penn  is  due, 

And  to  thy  bow-borne  Hercules,  oh  never  be  untrue!* 

*  The  State  of  Pennsylvania  was  named  after  Admiral  Penn; 
and  the  figure-head  of  the  ship  is  a  noble  bust  of  Hercules. 


POEMS.  159 


THE  WITHER'D  ROSE  BUD. 

AH  why  does  this  rose  bud  more  beautiful  seem, 
Than  when  gracing-  the  stem  where  it  grew ; 

All  wither' d  and  pale,  of  a  flower  but  the  dream  1 
*Tis  because  it  was  given  by  you, — 

'Tis  because  the  sweet  flowret  had  linger'd  awhile 
On  the  bosom  of  beauty  and  youth, 

Had  borrow'd  her  lustre,  had  stolen  her  smile, 
And  came  to  me  breathing  her  truth. 

And  now,  though  its  leaflets  are  gone  to  decay, 
And  mournfully  drooping  its  stem, 

And  tints  from  the  rainbow  are  fading  away, 
'Twill  still  be  of  roses  the  gem. 


160  POEMS. 

Like  its  fragrance,  still  lingering-,  fond  memory,  the  while, 

Will  couple  this  blossom  with  thee, 
And  soothe  by  recalling  the  look  and  the  smile 

That  came  with  the  rose-bud  to  me. 


POEMS.  161 


TO  A  LADY  WEEPING. 

O  LADY  !  shed  that  tear  again, 
Nor  let  a  smile  illume  thine  eyes  ; 

That  tear  of  sympathetic  pain, 
Is  worth  a  gem  of  Paradise  ! 

Oh,  ever  thus  may  I  behold 
The  melting-  tear  in  beauty's  eye, 

When  all  her  loveliest  buds  unfold 
Before  the  light  of  sympathy. 

The  smile  that  glitters  through  a  tear, 
May  tint  the  cheek  with  lighter  grace, 

But  oh,  to  me,  how  much  more  dear 
The  smileless  tear  that  gems  thy  face  ! 
14* 


162  POEMS. 

Yes  !  if  there  be  one  earthly  bliss, 

Which  none  but  feeling  hearts  may  know, 

It  is  to  gaze  on  tears  like  this, 

When  from  such  radiant  eyes  they  flow  ; 

And  if  there  be  one  joy  of  Heaven, 

Which  hearts  of  earthly  mould  may  borrow, 
To  thee  that  angel-bliss  is  given, 

When  weeping  for  another's  sorrow. 

Then  shed  that  graceful  tear  again, 
Nor  let  a  smile  illume  thine  eyes ; 

That  tear  of  sympathetic  pain 
Is  worth  a  gem  of  Paradise. 


POEMS.  163 


RECITED  AT  A  COLLEGE  COMMENCE 
MENT,  BY  A  YOUNG  FRIEND. 

TOGETHER,  friends,  o'er  learning's  ample  field, 

An  undivided  classic  band  we've  gone, 
None  choosing  to  his  mates  in  lore  to  yield, 

Yet  none  desiring  to  succeed  alone. 

So  be  it,  as  through  life  our  barks  we  steer, 

Where  gales  may  favour,  and  where  storms  may  strand  ; 

May  each  remember  those  he  now  holds  dear, 
And  love  to  take  his  class-mates  by  the  hand  ; 

Joy  in  their  honours,  for  their  sorrows  mourn, 
Partake  their  pleasures,  and  allay  their  woes, 

Never,  no  never,  from  their  service  turn, 
Deny  their  virtues,  or  their  faults  disclose  : 


164  POEMS. 

And  is  it  vain  to  hope,  that  they  who  here, 
In  life's  young  spring,  have  not  divided  been, 

May  still  through  time  the  unbought  feeling  share, 
And  friendship's  autumn  boast  as  fresh  a  green ; 

That  when,  through  conquer'd  trials,  all  have  gone, 
In  Heaven-supported  honour  to  the  tomb, 

The  good  shall  love  to  build  their  burial  stone, 
And  Eden  wake  for  them  her  sweetest  bloom. 


SACRED    POETRY. 


SACRED    POETRY. 


WRITTEN  IN  A  BIBLE  PRESENTED  TO 
S.  M.  MITCHELL. 

THE  holy  Book  I  now  present 

Matilda,  dear,  to  thee, 
Was,  by  the  King  of  Angels,  sent 

From  sin  to  make  us  free. 

Before  a  sigh  was  heav'd  by  man, 

Or  sorrow  had  its  birth, 
To  soothe  and  heal,  the  gracious  plan 

Was  form'd  in  heaven  for  earth  : 

And  such  His  mercy  who  has  fram'd 
Heaven,  earth,  and  sea,  and  air, 


168  SACRED   POETRY. 

Himself  &  sacrifice  he  narn'd, 
To  save  us  from  despair. 

The  wond'rous  tale  by  His  own  hands, 

Is  written  in  this  book  ; 
And  even  the  bright  angelic  bands 

Are  honoured  by  a  look. 

And  yet  that  holy  book  is  thine, 

With  privilege  to  learn 
The  Oracles  of  Truth  Divine, 

And  o'er  the  tale  to  burn. 

Oh,  let  its  holiness  impart 

Its  spirit  to  thy  breast, 
Confirm  thy  strength,  improve  thy  heart, 

And  set  thy  soul  at  rest. 

Oh,  may  its  Author,  kind  and  good, 
Unfold  its  precious  store, 

And  lineless  mercy,  like  a  flood, 
Out  o'er  thy  spirit  pour  ; 


SACRED  POETRY.  169 

Direct  thy  steps,  illume  thy  way, 

And  fill  thee  full  of  grace, 
And  thy  pure  soul  to  heaven  convey 

When  ends  thine  earthly  race ; 

And  cheer  thee  in  the  trying  hour 

When  earth  is  fading  fast, 
With  Christian  hope,  that  Eden's  bower 

Will  hold  us  all  at  last. 


15 


170  SACRED    POETRY. 


INFIDELITY. 

THE  fiend  that  comes  with  stealthy  pace, 

To  filch  our  hopes  away, 
To  snatch  from  human  misery 

Its  comfort  and  its  stay : 

That  strikes  away  the  last  fond  hope, 
On  which  the  spirit  leans, 

The  only  gem  the  dying  heart 

From  earthly  brilliants  gleans. 


SACRED    POETRY.  171 


WHEREFORE  SHOULD  I  FEAR  IN  THE 
DAYS  OF  EVIL. 

PSALMS  XLIX,  5. 

IF  reft  of  health,  why  should  I  mourn, 

Since  "  God  is  love,"  and  He 
Has  said  that  evil  he  will  turn 

To  greatest  good  for  me  ? 

If  riches  fail,  and  honours  fly, 

In  that  no  curse  I  see, 
For  God,  who  loves  me,  wTill  deny 

No  real  good  to  me: 

If  friends  desert,  betray,  or  die, 
No  hopeless  ffrief  is  mine, 


172  SACRED    POETRY. 

My  FRIEND  OF  FRIENDS  is  ever  nigh— 
Then  why  should  I  repine  ! 

If  age  steal  o'er  me,  and  decay 
My  yielding  form  invade, 

The  sooner  'twill  be  cast  away, 
For  one  that  cannot  fade. 

If  pain  and  peril  hold  me  fast, 
I'll  bear  them  well,  for  they 

Are  trials  of  my  faith,  and  last 
But  for  a  winter's  day. 

Why  should  I  mourn  for  any  loss, 
Since  it  is  sent  by  Him, 

Who  bore  for  me  a  cruel  cross, 
Though  King  of  Seraphim: 

Who  give  his  life  for  me,  and  mine ; 

And,  but  to  bless  me,  tries, 
And  longs  to  see  my  spirit  shine, 

A  saint  in  Paradise ! 


SACRED    POETRY.  173 

O  Master !  good  or  evil  send, 

As  seemeth  best  to  thee; 
But  teach  my  stubborn  heart  to  bend, 

In  love,  to  thy  decree. 

Whatever  come,  if  thou  wilt  bless 

The  brightness,  and  the  gloom, 
And  temper  joy,  and  soothe  distress, 

I  fear  no  earthly  doom: 

Life  cannot  give  a  cureless  sting, 

Death  can  but  crown  my  bliss, 
And  waft  me,  on  an  angel's  wing, 

Away to  happiness. 


15* 


174  SACKED    POETRY 


WRITTEN  IN  A  PRAYER-BOOK,  PRE 
SENTED  TO  MRS.  F.  OF  GEORGE 
TOWN,  D.  C. 

THOU  sacred  volume  of  eternal  truth, 
That  fain  wouldst  guide  aright  the  steps  of  youth; 
To  thee  henceforth  an  easy  task  is  given, 
Go  point  Maria's  soul  the  way  to  Heaven  ! 
And,  oh  !  when  o'er  life's  rough  and  thorny  way, 
She  journeys  on,  to  realms  of  purer  day, 
Let  no  rude  storm  of  pain  or  passion  lower, 
To  mar  her  progress  for  a  single  hour. 
Oh  !  to  her  gentle  spirit  strength  impart, 
To  stem  each  torrent  ere  it  whelm  the  heart. 
Be  still  her  friend,  until  she  gain  the  shore, 
Where  pain  and  peril  shake  the  soul  no  more; 
And  there,  when  life's  eventful  scenes  are  past, 
May  all  she  loved  on  earth  be  found  at  last. 


SACRED    POETRY.  175 


SLEEPING  FOR  SORROW. 

LTJKE,  XXII.  45. 

UPON  the  cold,  cold  earth  they  lie, 

While  night-winds  wildly  o'er  them  sweep, 

Their  canopy,  the  clouded  sky, 

And  they  are  sad,  and  yet  they  sleep. 

Their  master,  saviour,  guide,  their  all, 
Their  polar  star  on  life's  dark  deep, 
Is  soon  by  traitor  hands  to  fall ; 
They  fear  it,  yet  in  grief  they  sleep. 

Yes !  the  big  drops  of  agony, 
The  cold  dank  limbs  of  Jesus  steep, 
And  they,  so  near  him,  close  the  eye 
Of  sorrow,  and  for  grief  they  sleep. 


176  SACRED    POETRY. 

How  soundly  sleep  !  though  nature  sighs, 
And  Heaven  is  sad,  and  seraphs  weep, 
And,  to  his  God  in  sorrow,  cries 
Their  tortur'd  friend — and  yet  they  sleep. 

Oh,  what  strange  anguish  must  have  wrung 
Their  hearts,  on  Olive's  rocky  steep, 
When  nature  fail'd,  and  all  unstrung, 
They  sank  into  reluctant  sleep  ! 

But  He,  who  led  them  from  the  shore 
Of  their  own  native  lake,  to  sweep 
Their  nets  for  men,  though  lone  and  poor, 
Assuag'd  their  sorrow  by  a  sleep; 

And  when,  by  slumber,  nerv'd  to  bear 
The  vigils  of  the  night,  whose  deep 
Dark  tragedy,  'twas  theirs  to  share, 
He  gently  broke  their  mournful  sleep; 

Call'd  them  from  worldly  griefs  away, 
To  view  his  empire  on  the  steep 


SACRED    POETRY.  177 

Acclivity  of  Heaven,  which  lay 
Far,  far  beyond  the  realms  of  sleep. 

Oh  thus,  when  I,  by  sorrows  wrung1. 
Am  tempest-toss'd  on  life's  dark  deep, 
The  canvass  torn,  the  helm  unhung, 
And  earthly  pilots  all  asleep, 

May  He  who  felt,  himself,  the  throes 
Of  mortal  anguish,  o'er  me  keep 
His  sleepless  watch,  and  soothe  my  woes, 
And  call  me  from  my  sinful  sleep  ; 

Direct  my  vision  to  the  skies, 
Where  saints  forever  cease  to  wreep, 
Where  seraphs  lift  unclouded  eyes, 
Jlnd  sorrow  never  sinks  to  sleep. 


178  SACRED    POETRY. 


REPENTANCE. 

"  There  is  more  joy  in  Heaven  over  one  sinner  that  repenteth. 

O  BLEST  Repentance,  in  thy  weeping  eye, 

Swim  the  pure  beams  of  embryoecstacy, 

And  Faith,  and  Hope,  and  Love,  and  Joy  prepare, 

To  still  thy  heart,  and  wipe  thy  bitter  tear  ! 

To  thee  alone,  the  privilege  is  given, 

By  earthly  woe,  to  kindle  joy  in  Heaven, 

For  God,  himself,  descends  to  soothe  the  heart, 

That  weeps  o'er  sin,  and  struggles  to  depart ; 

And  deeper  transport  swells  the  bliss  above, 

As  seraphs  sing  the  triumphs  of  his  love. 


SACRED   POETRY.  179 


ON  THE  DEATH  OF  A  PIOUS  FRIEND. 

IF  friends  must  leave  us  for  the  tomb, 
And  make  our  hearts  all  lonely  here, 

It  is  a  sunbeam  'mid  the  gloom, 
To  shed  alone  affection's  tear ; 

To  weep,  in  hope,  for  those  who  die, 
The  tear  of  temper' d  grief  to  shed, 

To  see  the  grave  reflect  the  sky, 
And  view  the  angel,  in  the  dead. 

Let  fond  remembrance  only  mourn 

Sweet  images  of  goodness  tried, 
Of  passions  quell'd,  of  sorrows  borne, 

Of  honor  strongly  fortified. 


180  SACRED    POETRY. 

Oh,  such  my  grief,  if  grief  must  be  ! 

With  sorrow,  let  me  mingle  bliss  ; 
And,  on  the  dart  that  wounds  me  see, 

The  balm  that  medicates  distress. 


SACRED    POETRY.  181 


THE  HARP  OF  JUDAH. 


Altt  ; 


OH,  harp,  that  once  in  Judah's  hall, 

In  sweet  inspiring  strain, 
Entranc'd  the  fiery  soul  of  Saul, 

And  sooth'd  a  monarch's  pain  ! 

How  oft,  when  all  my  earthly  joys 

Appear  but  as  a  dream, 
I  welcome  thy  consoling  voice, 

Thy  heaven-directing  theme  ! 

Though  gone  the  hand  that  wak'd  thee  first, 

Though  clos'd  thy  minstrel's  eye, 
16 


182  SACRED    POETRY. 

And  they  who  caught  thine  early  burst 
Of  glory  are  not  nigh  ; 

Of  thee  no  string  is  broken  yet ; 

Thy  deep  and  holy  tone 
Can  make  me  earthly  cares  forget, 

And  dream  of  Heaven  alone. 

Oh  Harp,  if  Judah's  shepherd  flung 
Such  charms  around  his  theme, 

When  o'er  time's  distant  scenes  he  hung, 
In  dim  prophetic  dream  ; 

What  now  thy  spell,  could  David's  hand 
Awake,  once  more,  thy  strains, 

And  tell  to  every  thrilling  land, 
The  Lord  Immanuel  reigns  ! 


SACRED    POETRY.  183 


SABBATH  MORNING. 

Written  under  an  engraving  of  a  family  groupe,  about  to  go  to 
church. 

THE  sabbath  morn  is  calm  and  clear, 
And  flowers  perfume  the  balmy  air 

Around  the  cottage  door: 
Beneath  the  spreading  elm's  dark  shade, 
In  Sunday's  neatest  garb  array'd, 

Behold  the  pious  poor ! 

The  week-day  toils  are  over  now  ; 
No  worldly  cares  disturb  the  brow 

Of  him  who  loves  to  trace 
The  lesson  for  his  favour'd  child, 
His  Rosa,  tractable  and  mild — 

She  has  her  mother's  face  ! 


184  SACRED    POETRY. 

While  little  Will  stands  silent  by, 
With  hat  in  hand,  and  listening  eye, 

And  meditative  air: 
He  loves  his  Sabbath  teacher's  rule, 
And  longs  to  carry  to  the  school 

The  well  remember'd  prayer. 

See,  little  Sally,  stick  in  hand, 
With  lifted  finger,  gives  command 

To  Snap  at  home  to  stay  ; 
For  well  the  sneaking  fellow  knew 
He  made  a  noise  in  father's  pew, 

And  bark'd  on  Sabbath  day. 

On  trusty  donkey's  back  they  place 
The  honoured  grandsire  of  the  race, 

To  walk  too  feeble  now; 
WThile  o'er  her  father's  hairless  head 
The  daughter's  handkerchief  is  spread 

To  shield  his  naked  brow. 


SACRED    POETRY.  185 

At  least  this  once,  however  frail, 
To  go  to  church  he  cannot  fail, 

For  Mary  means,  to-day, 
To  dedicate  herself  to  God, 
And  tread  the  path  her  father's  trod, 

And  he,  for  her,  must  pray. 

She  was  his  solace  in  decay, 
The  light  of  his  declining  day, 

And,  through  her  lustrous  eye, 
He  lov'd  to  look  on  nature's  face, 
Kindled  into  a  richer  grace 

By  youth  and  piety. 

The  youngling,  too,  by  all  caress'd, 
Must  not  be  left  behind  the  rest; 

An  undivided  band, 
Imbued  with  love,  and  rich  in  grace, 
They  hasten  to  his  holy  place, 

To  honour  God's  command. 
16* 


186  SACRED    POETRY. 

Oh  !  who  would  forfeit  such  a  joy 
As  gilds  the  face  of  that  sweet  boy, 

And  smooths  his  grandsire's  brow, 
And  beams  in  Rosa's  ardent  eyes, 
And  heaves  in  Mary's  heart-felt  sighs, 

For  all  earth  could  bestow ! 

Yes !  blessed  Sabbath  morn,  thy  light 
Is  affluent,  in  pure  delight, 

To  those  who  love  thy  rest; 
Beyond  thy  sun,  a  Heavenly  ray 
Adds  moral  lustre  to  the  day, 

And  shines  into  the  breatf. 

That  lustre  brightens  dark  despair, 
And  makes  the  fairest  scene  more  fair, 

And  gilds  the  captive's  chain, 
Illumines  sickness,  braces  health, 
Cheers  poverty,  enhances  wealth, 

And  dulls  the  edge  of  pain. 


SACRED    POETRY.  187 

There's  not  an  earthly  lot  too  low 
To  catch  thy  heart-consoling  glow, 

There's  not  a  lot  too  fair 
To  borrow  lustre  from  thy  ray, 
For  those  who  keep  thy  holy  day, 

And  love  the  house  of  prayer. 


188  SACRED    POETRY. 


As  the  Hart  panteth  for  the  water-brooks, 
So  panteth  my  soul  after  thee,  O  God. 

PSALM  xlii.  I. 


THE  stricken  Arab  hart  had  fled 
Far  from  the  streamlet's  side  ; 

And  on  the  Desart's  fiery  bed, 

Had  drooped,  and  sunk,  and  died. 

Whilst  all  around  was  parch'd  and  bare, 
And  strength  and  hope  were  gone, 

He  made  his  last,  his  burning  lair, 
Unfriended  and  alone. 

Oh,  what  an  agony  to  think 

How  far  his  own  sweet  rill ; 

Its  crystal  fount,  its  grassy  brink, 
To  fancy  fresher  still  ! 


SACRED   POETRY.  189 

But  stricken  hart  ne'er  panted  more, 

When  life  was  on  the  wing, 
For  cooling-  brook,  and  verdant  shore, 

Than  I  for  Zion's  spring1. 

Fountain  of  g'lory,  grace  and  love, 

Oh  come,  oh  come  to  me, 
Nor  let  my  erring-  spirit  rove, 

Too  far  from  God,  and  thee  ; 

Lest  I  too  make  my  burning1  lair, 

Unpitied  and  alone, 
In  Desart-wilds  of  sin  and  care, 

Where  hope  is  never  known ; 

Where  fancy  paints  the  verdant  plain, 

And  blossom-shaded  spring 
Of  Heaven,  to  barb  the  dart  of  pain, 

And  keener  anguish  brino-. 

O  O 

Poor  Dives  !  what  a  hart-like  doom  ! 
From  out  the  gulf  of  woe, 


190  SACRED   POETRY. 

You  saw  the  fields  of  Eden  bloom, 
And  heard  its  waters  flow  ; 

E'en  to  a  beggar  meanly  clung, 

In  suppliant's  humblest  strain, 

And  ask'd  one  drop,  to  cool  your  tongue, 
And  ask'd  that  drop  in  vain. 


SACRED   POETRY.  191 


BLESSED  ARE  THE  PEACE-MAKERS. 

ST.  MATH.  V.  9. 

THE  walls  are  won,  the  smouldering  piles 

Proclaim  the  combat  o'er ; 
The  victor  on  the  ruin  smiles, 

And  waves  his  hand  of  gore. 

The  widow'd  wife  may  seek  her  love, 

Amidst  his  burning  lair, 
The  madden'd  mother  wildly  rove 

To  find  her  children — where  1 

The  maid  may  shriek  as  falls  her  pride, 

For  home  and  heart  contending, 
Hurl'd  from  the  conquered  ramparts  side, 

His  last  look  on  her  bending. 


192  SACRED   POETRY. 

"What  cares  the  chief,  whose  fierce  brigands 

Have  caused  the  desolation, 
'Tivere  crime,  if  done  by  private  hands  ; 

But  this  is  the  deed  of  a  nation ! ! 

The  wider,  ruin  spreads  her  blight, 

The  more,  we  love  her  story : 
One  murder  brands  the  hapless  wight ; 

A  thousand  such  are  glory. 

But  blame  him  not,  who  riots  there, 
In  the  crush  of  human  feeling ; 

Who  laughs  at  accents  of  despair, 
His  softer  spirit  steeling : 

Behind  war's  blood-red  thunder-cloud, 

The  sun  of  praise  is  shining; 
The  heedless  world  exults  aloud, 

And  drowns  the  heart's  repining. 

The  world,  the  world,  "  The  Christian  World," 
The  slayer  is  caressing, 


SACRED    POETRY.  193 

While  he,  who  war's  black  flag  has  furl'd, 
Has  but  his  Maker's  blessing. 

Yes,  he  who  smooths  the  bitter  wave 

Of  passion's  burning  ocean, 
Who  dares  not  slay,  who  loves  to  save 

To  still  a  land's  commotion, 

Must  look  for  honour  from  above; 

No  earthly  fame  is  given; 
Man  cheers  not  on  his  work  of  love; 

His  plaudits  are  from  Heaven. 


17 


194  SACRED    POETRY. 


LABOUR  NOT  TO  BE  RICH. 

PROV.  xxni,  4. 

CAN  riches  purchase  health  or  peace — 

Is  life  the  gift  of  gold — 
That  I  should  barter  soul  and  ease, 

And  work  till  I  am  old1? 

Is  this  dark  world  my  only  sphere, 

The  limit  of  my  bliss  1 
Must  I  be  always  toiling  here 

For  such  poor  dross  as  this  ? 

And  grope  and  labour  'mid  the  gloom, 
A  galley-slave  for  life — 


SACRED    POETRY.  195 

Heap  care  on  care,  until  the  tomb 
Absorb  the  useless  strife; 

And  find,  at  length,  my  sole  reward, 

Oblivious  disrespect; 
For  they  who  should  my  mem'ry  guard 

May  leave  it  to  neglect. 

Oh !  'tis  as  if  the  trader  strove 

To  load  his  heavy  wain 
With  mud  and  stones,  as  on  he  drove, 

His  journey's  end  to  gain; 

And  threw  away  the  precious  store 

Entrusted  to  his  care, 
And  found  instead,  his  journey  o'er, 
A  load  of  useless  ware. 

Oh !  GOD  of  Wisdom,  let  my  heart, 

To  nobler  toils  be  given; 
If  I  must  work,  oh !  place  my  part 

Of  wealth,  with  thee,  in  heaven. — 


196  SACRED    POETRY. 

Collect  my  treasures  in  the  sky, 
Beyond  corruption's  reign, 

Where  I  may  find  them  when  I  die, 
And  borrow  them  again. 


SACRED    POETRY.  19"; 


«  OUR  FATHER  WHICH  ART  IN 
HEAVEN." 

OMNIPOTENT,  omniscient  King-, 
Archangels  are  too  low  to  sing 

The  wonders  of  thy  name  ! 
May  I,  a  feeble  mortal,  try 
To  blazon  immortality, 

And  sound  Jehovah's  fame  1 

Yes  !  condescending  God,  thine  ear 
Is  open  to  a  mortal's  prayer, 

A  dust-formed  creature's  cries; 
The  Maker  of  the  stars  descends, 
In  mercy,  to  the  earth,  and  bends 

To  hear  repentant  sighs. 
17* 


198  SACRED    POETRY. 

Then,  O  my  Father,  bear  with  me, 
Nay  prompt  me,  while  I  pay  to  thee 

The  homage  of  my  heart; 
To  thee,  a  thousand  thanks  address, 
To  thee,  my  soul-felt  love  express, 

My  hopes,  rny  fears  impart. 

When,  drunk  with  blessings,  heedless  man, 
Regardless  of  their  source,  began 

His  rebel  course  to  run, 
Thou  didst  not  leave  him  to  despair, 
But  paid  his  ransom  with  thine  heir, 

Thine  own  Eternal  son. 

Yes  !  the  dread  Lord  of  earth  and  sky, 
Descending  from  his  throne  on  high, 

In  human  aspect  veil'd, 
Partook  our  nature,  shar'd  our  woes, 
Endur'd  the  rage  of  cruel  foes, 

And  to  the  cross  was  naiPd; — 


SACRED    POETRY.  199 

And  still,  'mid  boundless  bliss,  is  bent 
To  mitigate  the  punishment 

Of  sin,  and  stay  its  power; 
Arid  deigns  to  beautify  this  earth — 
Cursed  as  it  is — with  teeming  birth 

Of  tree,  and  fruit,  and  flower. 

I  love,  when  darkness  veils  the  flowers, 
And  stars  are  marking  lonely  hours, 

In  majesty  on  high; 
Almighty  Father,  how  I  love, 
In  meditative  mood,  to  rove, 

And  hail  thee  in  the  sky! 

And  when  the  sun,  at  early  dawn, 
Illumes  the  hill,  and  wakes  the  lawn, 

And  tips  the  silver  grove, 
I  see  on  earth  my  Father's  face; 
The  God  irradiates  every  place, 

And  "  sheds  abroad  his  love." 


200  SACRED    POETRY. 

There's  not  a  passing  day  or  hour, 
There's  not  a  tree,  a  shrub,  a  flower, 

But  fills  my  heart  with  thee. — 
Thy  goodness  sleeps  not,  faints  not  now; 
Time  shall  not  cease  to  see  it  flow; 

'Tis  to  eternity. 

But,  though  we  thank  thee  for  the  grace 
That  goodness  sheds  on  Nature's  face, 

Ah  !  how  much  more  for  this; 
For  warm  affections,  partial  friends, 
For  righteous  means,  and  honest  ends, 

The  spirit's  temper'd  bliss; 

For  place  in  this  enlightened  age, 
For  wisdom  from  the  sacred  page, 

That  speaks  of  thee,  and  thine, 
For  health,  contentment,  knowledge,  taste, 
No  disposition  time  to  waste, 

No  aptitude  to  pine; 


SACRED    POETRY.  201 

The  soften'd  heart,  the  soul  subdued, 
The  spirit  of  the  world  eschew'd, 

A  thousand  moral  charms, 
To  brighten  bliss,  to  temper  care, 
To  make  us  cureless  evils  bear, 

And  soothe  life's  last  alarms. 

Then,  God  of  Goodness,  teach  my  heart, 
From  thy  example,  how  my  part 

I  may  perform  below; 
With  patience,  let  me  evils  bear— 
My  means  with  suffering1  sorrow  share, 

And  pardon  every  foe; 

Promote  my  neighbour's  happiness, 
And  never,  never,  make  it  less, 

Nor  wound  a  feeling  breast; 
But  strive  the  ills  of  life  to  heal, 
And  teach,  when  cureless  woes  they  feel, 

To  fly  to  Thee  for  rest. 


202  SACRED    POETRY. 

And,  oh  !  my  Father,  let  me  pray, 
That  thou  wilt  clear  my  onward  way, 

Through  life's  perplexing  path, 
From  human  passion's  dazzling  play, 
From  strong  temptation's  swerving  sway, 

From  pride,  ambition,  wrath. 

Shield  me  from  sin  of  every  kind, 
And,  should  my  heart  be  broken,  bind 

It  up  in  heavenly  love; 
Or,  if  prosperity  assail 
Too  roughly,  wilt  thou,  Father,  fail 

Its  troubled  waves  to  smooth  1 

Thou  wilt  not  suppliant  children  leave, 
In  helpless  hopeless  sin  to  grieve, 

But,  arm'd  with  power  divine, 
Wilt  safe  degree  of  joy  below, 
And  boundless  bliss  in  heaven  bestow, 

And  make  them  wholly  thine. 


SACRED    POETRY.  203 

The  God  who  made  the  sun  and  stars, 
And  built  of  heaven  the  crystal  bars, 

And  bent  Antinous'  bow, 
Heav'd  high  the  hill,  and  spread  the  plain, 
Pour'd  from  his  palm  the  raging  main, 

And  gemm'd  Arion's  brow — 

Has  said,  that  treading  pleasant  ways 
Of  Wisdom,  for  a  few  short  days, 

Obedient  to  his  love, 
The  rich  reward — eternity 
Of  gushing  joy — our  lot  shall  be, 

With  seraphim  above. 

Then,  oh !  if  gentle  accents  fail, 
O'er  stubborn  passions  to  prevail, 

And  lead  my  soul  to  God, 
Oh  !  leave  me  not  to  Ephraim's  sins, 
But  speak  in  Sinai's  thunderings, 

And  drive  me  with  thy  rod. 


204  SACRED   POETRY. 

Do  any  thing,  O  God.  to  quell 
The  rebel  foes  of  sin  and  hell, 

And  chase  them  far  from  me; 
But  nerve  me,  Master,  for  the  blow, 
Thy  blessing  o'er  my  sorrows  throw, 

And  draw  me  near  to  thee. 

By  HIM  who  came  our  woes  to  share, 
And  died  to  shield  us  from  despair, 

Thine  own  celestial  son; 
And  by  that  Dove-like  spirit,  too, 
That  down  to  Jordan's  waters  flew, 

THE  HOLY  THREE  IN  ONE  : 

By  all  thy  promises  of  yore, 
And  by  the  unexhausted  store 

Of  goodness  and  of  grace, 
Which  dwells  forever,  Lord,  in  thee, 
Oh !  let  me,  let  me,  let  me  see 

My  Maker  face  to  face; 


SACRED    POETRY.  205 

And  join  the  sainted  forms,  that  stand 
Around  thy  throne,  from  every  land, 

Meek  Moses— fiery  Paul, 
And  Peter,  and  the  Royal  Bard, 
And  she  whose  mellow  voice  was  heard 

In  Eden,  ere  the  fall; 

The  dreamer  of  the  Apocalypse, 
And  he  who  brought  his  gold  in  ships 

From  Ophir's  distant  land, 
The  sage  who  saw  Belshazzar's  fall, 
In  blazing  letters  on  the  wall, 

Inscrib'd  by  God's  own  hand; — 

Oh  !  let  me  hear  Isaiah's  song, 
And  Massillon's  mellifluous  tongue; 

Bedell's  persuasive  voice; 
Enjoy  old  Luther's  words  of  fire; 
Feel  Knox's  force  my  soul  inspire; 

In  Heber's  strains  rejoice. 
18 


206  SACRED    POETRY. 

Oh  !  what  an  ecstacy  to  be 
For  ever  in  such  company, 

With  God,  my  Saviour,  nigh! 
Then,  well  may  I,  my  Father,  pray 
That  thou  wilt  point  the  heavenward  way, 

And  lead  me  to  the  sky. 


SACRED    POETRY.  207 


MY  NATIVE  VALE. 

AT  HOME.      2  COR.  V.  6. 

FROM  dusty  streets,  and  ceaseless  hum 

Of  ever-busy  throng1, 
From  fireman's  cry,  and  muster-drum, 

And  blacken'd  coalman's  song; 

From  that  most  dreaded  solitude 
The  thoughtful  stranger  meets, 

Where  trade's  conflicting  wheels  intrude, 
And  thousands  throng  the  streets; 

Where  every  eye  is  turn'd  aside, 

Or  fix'd  in  callous  gaze, 
Where  nought  is  seen  but  pamper'd  pride, 

Or  fashion's  heartless  blaze; 


208  SACRED    POETRY. 

Oh !  let  me  fly  to  thee  away, 

My  distant  native  vale, 
Where  song  of  bees  is  heard  by  day, 

By  night  the  mock-bird's  tale; 

Where  broad  Potomac  sighs  along 

Beneath  his  cliffs  of  stone, 
And  Shenandoah's  distant  song 

Is  like  a  giant's  moan. 

I  cannot  feel,  surrounded  here, 

By  works  of  human  things, 
As  in  that  grand  and  quiet  sphere, 

Where  up  the  spirit  springs; 

Where  Blue-Ridge,  with  a  graceful  slope, 

Bends  upward  to  the  sky, 
And  lifts  the  soul  with  mighty  hope 

Of  heavenward  destiny; 

Where  every  leaf  its  lesson  yields, 
Each  blossom  tells  its  tale; 


SACRED    POETRY.  209 

Creating  Love  is  in  the  fields, 
And  glory  in  the  vale. 

No  smoke-cloud  dims  the  brilliant  skies, 

Art  fetters  not  the  rill, 
The  fawn,  to  seek  the  fountain,  flies, 

The  eagle  scales  the  hill. 

Untrammel'd  Nature's  feeling  grace 

Exalts  the  pensive  soul, 
That  loves  the  Master's  hand  to  trace, 

And  own  his  sweet  control. — 

Then  let  me  fly  to  thee  away, 

My  gentle  native  vale, 
Where  hum  of  bees  is  heard  by  day, 

By  night  the  mock-bird's  tale — 

For  here  there's  nothing  for  the  heart, 

Where  pride  of  human  things 
Enshrouds  the  soul  in  works  of  art, 

And  hides  the  King  of  Kings. 

18* 


SACRED    POETRY. 


BLESSED  ARE  THE  DEAD  WHICH  DIE 
IN  THE  LORD. 

KEV.  XIV.    13. 

THE  living-,  are  they  bless'd  ?     Joy  dwellcth  not 
In  any  bosom  long — Care,  sleepless  care, 
Is  ever  on  his  path;  and,  when  he  comes, 
Joy  flutters  off  again.     The  brightest  sun 
Casts,  ever,  deepest  shadows  ;  and,  the  most 
Is  man  in  danger,  when  the  richest  buds 
Of  earthly  bliss  are  clustering  in  his  bower. — 
The  very  grasp,  the  sought-for  bubble,  bursts. 
Fruition,  as  'tis  called,  darkens  the  hue 
Of  every  toy  of  life. — The  heart-strings  move, 
Not  long,  to  constant  impulse.     The  first  drops 
Of  rain  from  heaven  upon  the  harp,  will  stir 


SACRED    POETRY.  211 

Its  tones  of  sweetness:  but  how  soon  they  damp 

Its  chords  of  harmony — and  make  it  still ! 

The  widest  sea  is  vexed  by  wildest  storms; 

The  highest  hill's  a  resting-  place  for  snow; 

And,  if  the  vale  is  safest  from  the  blast, 

'Tis  but  to  lie  expos'd  to  floods,  that  sweep 

Away  its  soil,  and  make  a  sterile  waste. 

But  'tis  not  so  in  Heaven !     The  highest  there, 

Is  nearest  to  the  throne  of  HIM  whose  eye 

Sheds  shadeless  bliss  on  all  within  its  scope. 

There,  light  no  shadow  casts; — the  blossoms  there 

Are  never  blighted; — the  young  buds  of  joy 

No  canker  withers;  and  the  smile  of  bliss 

Is  never  dimm'd  by  tears. — Each  joy  is  full. 

And  if  imagination,  on  the  wing 

Of  Milton's  mighty  soul,  in  vain  might  scan 

The  depth  and  fulness  of  the  stream  of  good, 

That  but  divides  to  swell,  and  subdivides 

To  grow  more  full  and  spreading — may  we  not 

Echo  the  voice  the  sainted  dreamer  heard, 

And  say  that  they  alone  are  truly  bless'd, 

Who,  be  the  life  a  life  of  woe  or  peace, 


013  SACRED    POETRY. 

Die  in  the  Lord,  and,  on  the  wings  of  love 

And  tireless  faith,  ascend  to  HIM  who  gave 

The  hope  that  gladdens  life,  the  faith  that  brightens  death. 

'Tis  a  blessing  to  live,  but  a  greater  to  die, 
And  the  best  of  the  world,  is  its  path  to  the  sky. — 
Be  it  gloomy  or  bright,  fur  the  life  that  he  gave, 
Let  us  thank  Him — but  blessed  be  God  for  the  grave ! 
'Tis  the  end  of  our  toil,  'tis  the  crown  of  our  bliss, 
'Tis  the  portal  of  happiness — aye,  but  for  this, 
How  hopeless  were  sorrow,  how  narrow  were  love, 
If  they  look'd  not  from  earth  to  the  rapture  above ! 
But  the  portals  of  death  open  out  on  the  skies, 
And  the  mortal  who  enters  in  ecstacy  flies, 
An  angel  of  light,  to  the  throne  of  the  King; 
While  the  echoes  of  Heaven  in  harmony  ring 
With  the  song  of  the  seraphs,  "  Oh  !  blessed  are  they 
Who  die  in  the  LORD,  and  from  earth  come  away — 
They  rest  from  their  labours — the  works  of  their  love 
Have  followed,  and  crown  them  with  glory  above." 


THE  END. 


Philadelphia,  1839. 

E.  L.  GAREY  fe  A.  HAKT 

HAVE  RECENTLY  PUBLISHED, 

FOUR  YEARS  IN  PARAGUAY; 

Comprising  an  account  of  that  Republic  under  the 

Dictator  Francia. 
BY  J.  P.  &  W.  P.  ROBERTSON, 

In  2  Vols.  12mo. 

This  is  one  of  the  most  deeply  interesting-  publications  that 
has  appeared  for  months.  It  is  instructive  moreover,  and  con 
tains  sketches  of  the  scenery  arid  manners  of  a  country,  con 
cerning-  which  few  travellers  have  written.  Messrs.  Carey  &, 
Hart  have  rendered  an  essential  service  to  the  public,  in  put 
ting-  forth  an  American  edition.  The  full  title  of  the  work  is 
"  Four  Years  in  Paraguay,  comprising  an  account  of  that 
Republic,  under  the  government  of  the  Dictator  Francia,  by 
J.  P.  and  W.  P.  Robertson."  The  authors  are  supposed  to  be 
the  first  British  subjects  that  ever  visited  the  country ;  and  no 
other  work  than  the  present,  professing  to  give  an  account  of 
Paraguay,  written  by  an  Englishman  or  American  is  extant. — 
Pennsylvania  Inquirer. 

There  is  a  good  deal  of  interesting  anecdote,  about  that 
famous  man  Don  Gasper  Rodriguez  de  Francia,  Doctor  in 
Medicine,  and  late  Consul  or  Dictator  of  Paraguay,  with  whom 
one  of  our  travellers  was  personally  and  familiarly  acquainted. 
This  indeed  is  the  best  part  of  the  book. — The  following  pas 
sage  is  delicious. — Metropolitan. 


RICHARD    HURDIS; 

A  TALE  OF  ALABAMA. 

SECOND  EDITION. 

A  fine,  masculine  novel,  by  some  unknown  hand,  said  to  be 
a  person  of  considerable  eminence,  whose  name,  if  disclosed, 
would  alone  give  extensive  circulation  to  the  work.  But  his 
name  is  withheld  from  personal  considerations.  The  story  is  one 
of  crime  and  bloodshed,  founded  on  facts  not  very  remote,  and 


CATALOGUE  OF  NEW  WORKS. 

disclosing  appaling  scenes  of  iniquity  in  our  own  country. — 
The  author  has  displayed  unusual  ability  for  narrative  and 
characterisation.  The  story  is  a  simple  one,  and  the  narrator 
goes  straight  forward  to  the  conclusion,  without  suffering  the 
reader's  interest  to  flag  from  beginning  to  end.—  U.  S.  Gaz. 

We  have  perused  this  novel  carefully  and  entirely,  and  are 
prepared  to  speak  with  singular  satisfaction  upon  its  merits. — 
When  we  st-y  that  such  was  its  fascination,  we  were  unable, 
after  commencing  the  first  volume,  to  lay  it  aside,  until  we  had 
reached  its  termination,  we  but  faintly  picture  the  wonderful 
interest  of  its  contents.  The  plot  is  extremely  simple;  the  in 
cidents  numerous,  varied,  somewhat  strained,  but  thrillingly 
exciting.  The  language  is  nervous,  characteristic,  and  alto 
gether  unhackneyed.  There  is  a  freshness  about  the  whole 
work,  and  a  vigorous  boldness  that  we  like  exceedingly, — Phi 
ladelphia  Spirit  of  the  Times. 


AN  EXPLANATION  OF  THE  LAWS  OF 
GROWTH  &  EXERCISE; 

Through  which  a  pleasing  contour,  symmetry  affirm,  and 
graceful  carriage  of  the  Body  are  acquired,  and  the  com 
mon  deformities  of  the  spine  and  chest  prevented. 
BY  JOHN  BELL,  M.  D. 

This  volume  is  intended  for  the  general,  rather  than  the 
professional  reader.  It  has  claims  upon  our  notice,  from  the 
reputation  of  the  author  as  well  as  from  the  excellence  of  the 
design  and  execution  of  the  work.  Dr.  Bell  is  one  of  the  few 
writers  upon  popular  medicine,  who  has  successfully  treated 
this  difficult  subject.  Resorting  neither  to  charlatanry,  nor 
to  indelicacy  to  render  his  book  attractive,  he  has  confined 
himself  to  the  delivering  of  a  few  important  hygienic  and  phy 
siological  truths,  conveyed  in  a  pleasing  style  and  very  happily 
illustrated;  we  think  it  enlitled  to  the  sanction  of  the  profes 
sion,  and  that  it  may  be  safely  recommended  to  the  public  as 
a  very  agreeable  and  useful  publication. — Medical  Examiner.  • 


CATALOGUE  OF  NEW  WORKS. 

AN   EXPEDITION  OF   DISCOVERY, 

INTO  THE  INTERIOR  OF  AFRICA, 

Through  the  hitherto  undescribed  countries  of  the  Great  Na- 
maquas,  Boschmaus  and  Hill  Damaras,  performed  under 
the  auspices  of  Her  Majesty's  Government  and  the  Royal 
Geographical  Society,  and  conducted  by 

JJ1MES  EDWARD  ALEXANDER. 

2  Vols.  12mo. 

The  best  and  most  interesting-  book  of  travels  we  have  seen 
for  a  long  time  is  Alexander's  account  of  his  Expedition  of 
Discovery  into  the  interior  of  Africa,  through  the  hitherto  nn- 
described  countries  of  the  Great  Namaquas,  Buschmaus  and 
Hill  Uamaras,  performed  under  the  auspices  of  the  British 
Government  and  the  Royal  Geographical  Society.  The  adven 
tures  of  the  traveller  and  his  party  are  of  the  most  interesting 
and  exciting  character.  Those  encounters  of  the  natives  with 
their  neighbors,  the  lions,  are  perfectly  thrilling— rather  too 
much  so  to  take  a  part  in.  When  a  lion  seizes  one  by  the  side, 
tears  out  two  or  three  ribs,  and  lays  bare  the  lungs,  the  affair 
becomes  altogether  loo  personal,  to  be  agreeable. — Messenger. 


THE  BRITISH  SENATE; 

Or,  a  Second  Series  of  Random  Recollections  of  the  Lords 
and  Commons.  By  the  Author  of  the  "  Great  Metropo 
lis,"  "  The  Bench  and  the  Bar,"  &c. 

A  visit  to  the  two  houses  of  Parliament,  when  in  session,  is 
an  entertainment  which  almost  any  one  would  be  willing  to 
purchase  at  some  sacrifice  of  time,  trouble  and  money.  It 
would  afford  much  pleasure  and  instruction  and  leave  many 
lasting  recollections.  Now,  as  this  visit  cannot  be  made  by 
more  than  one  in  a  thousand  of  those  who  desire  it,  we  may 
congratulate  ourselves  that  the  accomplished  author  of  the 
Great  Metropolis,  has  thought  proper  to  furnish  us  with  the 
best  possible  substitute,  by  giving  us  a  series  of  lively,  graphic, 
and  masterly  sketches  of  these  famous  halls  of  legislation 
exactly  as  they  appear  to  one  who  daily  frequents  them.  We 
see  the  lords  and  the  commons  sitting  in  grave  debate,  or  elec 
trified  with  the  eloquence  of  the  several  speakers  who  are  here 
described  and  characterised  to  the  life.  We  see  the  new 


CATALOGUE  OF  NEW  WORKS. 

queen  entering  the  house,  hear  her  speech,  note  her  air  and 
gestures,  witness  the  moving-  of  the  address  in  answer,  and  are 
then  conducted  through  ttic  most  interesting1  scenes  of  the  ses 
sion,  ;,nd  severally  introduced  to  the  distinguished  men  who 
take  the  lead  in  that  august  assembly,  the  British  Senate. 
Surely,  if  we  do  not  now  possess  ourselves  of  these  volumes 
and  thus  become  a  u  fait  to  the  sayings  and  doing's,  the  "how 
and  about"  of  this  famous  assembly,  it  will  be  our  own  fault. — 
Messenger. 

NAP  OLE  ON  MEMOIRS; 

EVENINGS  WITH   PRINCE  CAMBACERES. 

BY  BARON  LANGON. 

2  Vols.  12mo. 

It  possesses  intense  interest,  especially  for  those  who  delight 
in  tracing  the  wonderful  progress  of  the  great  captain  of  mo 
dern  times.  The  style  is  agreeable,  while  the  incidents  are 
racy,  and  in  many  cases  striking  and  important. — Inquirer. 

Evenings  with  Cambacercs,  published  by  Messrs.  Carey  & 
Hart,  last  week,  belongs  to  the  same  class  of  delightful  "  Me 
moirs"  with  Caulincourt's,  which  we  recently  noticed.  The 
French  have  always  excelled  in  this  entertaining  species  of 
writing,  and  this  specimen  is  the  best. — Messenger. 


NAPOLEON  AND  HIS  TIMES, 

BY  CAULINCOITRT, 

DUKE  OF  VICENZA. 

2  vols.  12mo. 

Such  being  our  sentiments,  it  may  be  said  that  any  well 
authenticated  memoir  of  Napoleon  can  hardly  be  considered 
uninteresting,  and  the  pages  of  Caulincourt,  so  far  as  we  have 
yet  been  able  to  read  them,  furnish  a  variety  of  detail  previously 
unknown  or  unpublished,  with  here  and  there  familiar  sketches 
of  his  character,  both  in  its  strength  and  its  weakness,  that  are 
calculated  to  impart  a  very  graphic,  and,  we  imagine  also,  an 
equally  correct  portrait  of  the  late  Emperor  of  the  French. 
Many  anecdotes  are  quite  of  a  conversational  character,  arid 
intersperse  well  with  the  notices  of  treaties,  battles,  retreats, 
and  all  the  sanguinary  horrors,  miseries,  and  results  of  war. 
The  work  eannut  tail  to  be  popular. — Inquirer. 


^.020,6 


